STARS
by MarcusKrueger46
Summary: The life of Chris Redfield leading up to the Mansion Incident is an enigma. Bits and pieces of his life are known, but much of his past remains shrouded in mystery. Now, Chris Redfield tells his story. Rated M for coarse language and later violence.
1. Chapter 1: Death

DISCLAIMER:

Resident Evil is owned by Capcom interactive.

BACKGROUND:

Even before the Mansion Incident, the life of Chris Redfield was not by any means a normal one. From the time he was nineteen years old, his life was fraught with difficulty. There is an old saying: "that which does not kill you can only make you stronger." Perhaps it was this simple concept that strengthened him for the extraordinary trials he would face later in life.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

**Chapter 1: Death**

They say everyone goes through a rough patch in their life at one point. Whether it's the death of a close friend or relative, being fired from a job, getting a divorce, or whatever other shit happens to people, everyone has to run through a gauntlet at one point in their life.

I went through two.

The first time was about six years ago. I hadn't yet joined the Air Force, but I was aspiring to. My parents were great. They loved me. Even when I was a fuck-up, they loved me. Raising me and my sister was their number one priority, and they never stopped reminding me of it. Aside from my sister, they were really the only ones that kept me going.

Until I got that phone call.

The first thing I remember after hearing the news was looking down at the shattered plastic that had once been my phone, not remembering how I had broken it. Neighbors probably pissed themselves when they heard all the things I started shouting. Curses I didn't even know existed. Pure emotion just spewed out of my mouth, taking whatever form it could. I had to release those feelings, somehow. That was the only way I could possibly deal with it.

My parents were dead. Both of them, dead. Gone. No way to ever get them back. Ever. Gone. Both of them. Dead. I kept saying the same things in my head over and over. I couldn't make myself believe it, no matter how many times I said it. And the worst of it hadn't even started yet.

I had to pick Claire up at her friends' house. She was only 13. Imagine: you're 13 years old, happy, have lots of friends, doing well in school, and just about everything you could ever hope would go well with your life is, and one night some asshole calls you up and tells you some truck driver turned your parents into hamburger meat. Doesn't even soften the blow for you, even though you're just a kid. If I ever find that guy, I swear I'm gonna wring his neck.

When I walked through the door, she was completely inconsolable. She couldn't even form words. She just kept crying and crying. I'd tried so hard to stop crying for her, so she wouldn't see me, so I could be strong for her, and then I show up at that place and see her there, and…I couldn't help myself. I started crying, too. I just wrapped my arms around her and cried. We stayed like that for hours. God bless that family, they just let us sit there in their living room all night, crying.

That was one of the worst rough patches of my life. It wasn't just from dealing with the loss. It was knowing they were gone, and I hadn't gotten the chance to make it up to them. I hadn't made them proud. I hadn't shown them their efforts on me weren't wasted. That's what drove me to change myself. I promised myself, for their sakes, that I'd change. I'd take both their places and raise Claire myself. When she was accounted for, I'd work up the guts to do what I'd always talked about doing: enlist in the Air Force. Make something useful of myself. And that's exactly what I did.

I started small. I stopped drinking, but I just couldn't quit smoking. Guess that's why Claire picked it up a few years later. I lectured her God knows how many times about it, but it's no use. If I can't quit, she can't. Never would've started if it wasn't for me, either.

We're best friends, her and I. Always have been. She's the one person I never wronged, the one person I cared about enough to really watch what I said and did around. In return, she modeled herself after me. Well, after my good qualities, anyway.

This was all back in ninety two. I was nineteen at the time, barely able to take care of myself, let alone a sibling without some kind of financial support. Lucky me, it was in my parent's Will that in the event of both of their deaths, _I_ was to inherit the house and all their assets. Made things a little easier I guess. Even in death, they watched out for me.

To cover the loose ends I picked up a part-time job at a convenience store. The deal was I'd work there during the day, pick Claire up from school, bring her home and have dinner.

Actually, that was the thing. Neither of us could cook. Well, I mean, I tried a couple times at first, but the end result was usually that we'd just order out. Finally, after about three weeks of burgers, fries and pizza, Claire put her foot down.

"You've got to learn to cook for us, Chris," she told me sternly. "Seriously. This isn't healthy."

"Whaddya want me to do, sis?" I shrugged. "All I know how to make is a sandwich."

"Fine. We'll just live on sandwiches until you figure out how to work an oven."

I couldn't help but laugh at that. It wasn't quite that she sounded like an upstart little kid, far from it. It was just how...assertive she was. Here she was, a young kid telling me, her older brother and guardian, to get off my ass and do something productive. It just struck me as a little absurd. But then she's always been like that.

"Look, Claire, how 'bout this- I'll learn how to cook, but you have to do all the housework."

"Fine," she said with a young smile.

We went on like that for about two years. True to my word, I started looking over Mom's old cook books and watching cooking shows in my free time. Not the most... masculine goal I've ever set myself to, but it needed to be done. Likewise, Claire started doing all the housework and cleaning. Not saying it was an easy task, but together, we made it work.

I knew I'd never be able to convince Claire to let me leave. I had to ease her into it. I sent her off to spend a week or a weekend at a relative's house every once in awhile. She asked me, once, why I kept sending her out. "Hey," I told her, "a guy's gotta have some time to himself every once in awhile, you know?"

I'd hoped that after awhile she'd start to look forward to getting out of the house. It's not like she ever had a bad time when she left. She always came home beaming, so she must have had fun away from the house. That's what I thought at first. She told me about a year into it that the reason she was always so bubbly when she came home wasn't because she'd enjoyed her vacation, but because she was so ecstatic about coming home.

I spent a bunch of nights sitting alone in the family room after Claire was asleep, watching TV and smoking and thinking. But mostly thinking. Weighing every option. There was no way out. I had to make something of myself. They'd been so nice, so understanding, so trusting of me. They'd let me pass up College so I could go into the service, for God's sake. But I still felt responsible for Claire. I couldn't just leave her to pursue personal glory. I just couldn't do that to her.

So I just sat in the dark, taking drag after drag night after night. There was no way out.

My dad placed a hand on my shoulder. I was just standing in front of the house, staring straight ahead. Couldn't move. I jumped a little when I felt his hand gripping my shoulder.

"Missing it already, huh?" he said.

I looked down. "Yeah".

I heard him let out a deep sigh.

"This is never easy, Chris. It wasn't for me when I moved out. I never expected it would be easy for you. Actually," he said, "I hoped it wouldn't." He kind of shook my shoulder in a rough, friendly way. "If it was, that'd have to mean I went wrong by you. You know, you not being able to wait until you moved out of the house".

He let out a chuckle. I returned it.

"Trust me," I said, "that's not the case."

There was a look my dad had when he was really proud of me. It was this glow in his eyes aided with a contented smile, but there was more to it than that. Something metaphysical that I couldn't quite identify.

"Look, Chris," he said, abruptly changing his expression and looking around anxiously, "I don't want to encourage you in any way to keep smoking, but-"

He pulled out his lighter. His gold fucking lighter, our house's equivalent to The Holy Grail. He pulled it out of his pocket and furtively slipped it into my hand. My eyes must've been huge. I just held it in my hand, looking between it and him, back and forth.

"Dad, I-"

He held his hand in front of my face. I was silenced.

"Just keep it. I don't need it anymore," he said.

"But, didn't Mom get this for you when you first started dating? You protected this thing with your life," I protested.

"Did," he said. "It was a nice thing to have for awhile, but now...it's just a lighter, Chris," he shrugged. "The real reason it was so important to me had nothing to do with its function."

I glanced back down at the lighter like it was a priceless treasure. Then again, it was to me.

I slipped it into my pocket just as my Mom and Claire came out of the house, carrying the last of my stuff in cardboard boxes.

"I just know you'll do great things Chris," he said. "You know your mother and I have always supported you. You're a difficult kid to find fault in," he said. "I can't keep holding your hand through what lies ahead. Just know this." He put both arms on my shoulders and forced me to look him in the eye. "There are some decisions you'll need to make in life that'll make you feel like you can't win either way. One decision will seem like the right thing to do, though you know you'll just end up getting bitten in the end; the other will seem safer, but in the long run you know you'll regret it. Things like that. It's during those times," he said solemnly, "when you should tune out everything but your own judgment. It's those decisions that are the hardest to make, Chris. They're also the most important ones you'll ever make. Because they're the decisions that will define you as a person. Never forget, son," he said. "that no matter how hopeless a situation may seem, you can always rely on your own strength, and your own sense of right and wrong to guide you. And you must truly believe in the decisions you make. Because if you can't do that, you can't ever be sure that they were even the right decisions in the first place."

I promised Claire I'd write to her every chance I got. She promised the same. When I got on that bus, Claire's the last thing I remember seeing. I wondered if she'd be alright on her own. Some relatives of ours were gonna look after her now. It didn't matter, though. I couldn't help but worry.

The Air Force treated me pretty well. I moved up the ranks, gained the attention of my superiors. Pretty soon I was flying combat missions. I heard the same thing everywhere I went: "that's Chris Redfield," they'd say. "Son of a bitch's one of the best pilots we got." I flew…Christ…I don't know how many missions. Some were bombing runs, some were recon missions, I even had to dogfight a few times. Every time I went out, I came back without a scratch. It didn't take long for me to be promoted to Ace of my very own squad.

There was one problem I had with the Air Force, and his name was Lieutenant Bromley. He was a skinny little chickenshit that was hated by just about everyone that was forced to interact with him. Those below him despised him for being a dickless tyrant, and those above him hated him for being a kiss-ass. Me, I hate him for both of those reasons and then some.

Bromley and I clashed numerous times. He didn't like the fact that I refused to respect him, due to the simple fact that he gave, earned, and deserved, none. He once made me clean the toilets in my barracks with my toothbrush for, I shit you not, "looking at him funny". I responded the next day by getting everyone in the barracks, officers included, to just leer at him whenever they saw him. Like I said, _nobody_ liked the bastard.

Bromley jumped at every opportunity he could find to ruin my reputation among his fellow officers. He showed constant disrespect not only for myself, but my entire squadron as well. I had to be careful not to do anything that would give him reason to have me court martialled. I knew he'd do it the first chance he got. For a couple years, everything went smoothly.

One morning, I was woken up by none other than Bromley himself. He told me to get my ass in gear and have everyone in my squad ready by 0500. I followed his orders. By 0459, we were all in the debriefing room, waiting to receive our orders. Bromley stormed in at 0505. He started cursing and growling at us, as if it was our fault his ass was five minutes late.

When we finally got down to business, he gave us the rundown. There was a Special Ops team more than fifty clicks away that had been attempting to escape a hostile area via helicopter. They had been shot down, and a new chopper was being prepped for them. Problem was, they were still relatively deep in enemy territory. Bromley was in charge of sending in air support. Of course, since it was an extremely dangerous mission with a high probability of casualties, he decided to send _my_ squad.

Our job was to go ahead of the chopper and soften up enemy ground and air forces. We knew they were in the territory somewhere, we just didn't know exactly where they were, or how they would respond to an air assault.

The exact moment we passed into enemy territory, all hell broke loose. Our radars were jammed, and our radios were filled with static on every channel. From somewhere on the ground, guerrilla MANPADS missiles started coming at us twelve at a time. James Cooper, one of my best friends in the AF, got hit right away. A missile tore off his left wing, and he started spiraling towards the ground. I never really figured out why he didn't eject. Maybe he panicked. Maybe his equipment was messed up, and the eject button malfunctioned. I suppose I'll never find out.

A few minutes in, we spotted the downed chopper right in the center of an open plain. The Special Ops guys had absolutely no cover, and a huge cloud of black smoke was resonating from the derelict. From my plane, I could see a column of small, black shapes moving in on them. Jeeps. Troop transports. Maybe even tanks. If we didn't spring them soon, they wouldn't stand a chance.

All of a sudden, the radios cleared up. The first sound I heard was Bromley's voice.

"Redfield!" he'd screamed. "What the fuck's happening up there?"

"We've located the derelict, sir, but we've lost Bishop five and we're under heavy fire by Man-Portable Surface-To-Airs, over," I replied.

"Then deal with the damn things!" he shouted. "That's what you fucking morons are supposed to be doing- softening them up for the chopper."

"Sir, they're tossing way too much heat at us as it is. If we get close enough to start strafing, they'll tear us to pieces, over." I knew he wouldn't listen to logic, but I had to at least try to reason with him. I didn't intend to lose any more friends to Bromley's idiocy.

"Well then the whole operation's botched, now isn't it?" he responded sarcastically. "Return to base immediately. I'm recalling the chopper."

"Sir, I'm looking at the target right now. There's a column of hostiles closing in on them as I speak. If we don't get them out of there now, they won't stand a chance, over."

"If you even _think_ about disregarding my orders Redfield," he said, "I'll see to it personally that you're stripped of your rank and given a dishonorable discharge".

There was a pause.

"Redfield?" he shouted. "Redfield, are you listening to me? Redfield!"

"I know you will, sir," I told him. "But frankly, I don't really give a shit. Over and out."

I switched off HQ's channel as soon as he began to reply. Knowing full well the consequences of my actions, I switched the radio back to my squad's channel.

"This is Bishop one," I said. "All units form on me. We're gonna have to take out that column. Bishop six, get a hold of HQ, anyone but Bromley. Explain the situation to them. Tell them to send the chopper now. Over."

"I'm hearing some pretty intense shit from HQ, Bishop one." One of my squadmates' voices came out of the radio. "The Lieutenant's pretty pissed, over."

"Let him be," I said. "Let him tell his superiors later that he ordered us to pull out and abandon those men down there, when there was still a chance they could be bailed out. Over."

I started to descend. Shit was flying at me from all directions. Adrenaline was shooting through my veins. Every sound, every flash of movement…I was aware of it. _All it takes is one missile, one explosion,_ I kept telling myself. _All it takes is one_. I made damn sure that none of them hit me. I was confident my squad could do the same.

All I remember is that one minute I was descending hard and fast, focusing on every projectile that headed my way, dodging every last one of them. Then something passed over my head and dropped straight down. It was a plane, engulfed with flames. Just as it passed my own fighter, I saw the pilot eject. It didn't matter, though. The cockpit was ablaze, and he himself was on fire, even as he floated through the air on his parachute. Then the parachute caught fire, and he fell like a rock. Horrified, I scrambled for the radio.

"Bishop lance this is Bishop one," I choked out, struggling to force words from my mouth. "Everyone report in, over."

"Bishop three, standing by, over," one voice said.

"Bishop six, standing by, over," said another.

"Bishop four, standing by, over."

"Bishop seven, standing by, over."

I switched off the radio. It was Bishop two. Jenkins. My old buddy from High School that had sworn to enlist when and if I did. The best friend a guy could have. And now he was dead, because of me. Because of my orders. First Cooper, now Jenkins. Both on the same mission.

I refused to allow them to die in vain. I would either spring those poor bastards on the ground or die trying. I kept pressing downward, dodging everything that came at me. Since Jenkins' plane was completely engulfed with flames, most of the missiles opted for it instead of the rest of us. It was, after all, a much warmer target.

As we neared our targets, I began to level out. There were way more hostiles here than I'd guessed. Jeeps, trucks, assault and troop transport vehicles of all kinds. It seemed most of the SAMs had come from the surrounding hills; as soon as we neared the column the amount of missiles being launched at us seemed to decrease dramatically.

They fired at us with .30 and .50 cal machine guns. Futile, to say the least. We peppered them with machine gun fire. Dust kicked up; vehicles stopped in their tracks or drifted off-road and into ditches, others caught fire or exploded. The wind was pretty weak, so the dust cloud created by our .50 cal rounds didn't dissipate. They couldn't see us, but we could certainly see them. In a few minutes, what few hostiles remained turned and sped away . I'm not sure how they thought Soviet-made jeeps would be able to outrun one, let alone five Harrier jets. None the less, they made an effort.

We returned just in time to see the replacement chopper picking up the Special Ops guys and their pilots. We escorted them back to the airstrip with very little trouble. When we got back to base, Bromley was waiting for us, or rather me, on the runway. No sooner had the cockpit opened than he started howling insults at me. His face turned bright red and the vein on his forehead popped out.

Understand that I had just come out of an extremely dangerous mission, where I lost two of my closest friends. I'd been up since 0400. I was hungry, tired, angry, and remorseful. I was in no mood for his bullshit. So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I wound up and planted my fist right between his eyes.

Needless to say, I was way out of line and therefore subject to court-martial. I was only charged with disobeying orders; nobody had seen me strike an officer. There were nine witnesses that attested to that.

However, since a man under my command had been killed as a result of my disobeying orders the fault of his death was added to my charge. On the other hand, I had rescued three men carrying highly valuable intel and the pilot and co-pilot of their chopper. In addition, it was discovered during the investigation that Bromley had known that the area was hot- too hot for an air pick-up, though he had intentionally withheld this from his superiors. He had sent men into a suicide mission. My men. Therefore, Bromley was also subject to court-martial. I left the Air Force with an Honorable Discharge, maintaining my rank and personal honor. Bromley was expelled with a Dishonorable. He was stripped of his rank and disgraced. At the very least, I still had my pride.

At the very least.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Finally! You guys have no idea how long it took me to edit this. I had to do some major rehashing on the original version before I came out with this one (the one that makes sense). Anyway, I really appreciate constructive criticism. Or compliments. I like those, too. ;) Anyway, if you feel so inclined, just leave a review, or e-mail me. If you're just going to flame, then don't bother wasting my time and yours.

CHAPTER 2 COMING SOON!


	2. Chapter 2: Revelation

You may have noticed I've started naming my chapters now.

This chapter is quite different. There's not quite as much action per se, but it delves yet farther into Chris Redfield's personal past.

Enjoy.

**Chapter 2: Revelation**

I didn't come home right away. I basically spent two weeks doing what I'd always done before I joined the AF: I wandered around, drank, smoked, wallowed in self-pity. In my battered, inebriated state, my sense of logic and self-worth were severely hindered. Bromley was an incompetent asshole, and he got what he deserved. But still, what if he was on to something? What if I really was just a useless burnout? I had inadvertently caused the death of my best friend, after all. I had spent the first nineteen or so years of my life wasting it. Maybe I had just been trying too hard to prove myself by playing hero. I don't know. I just felt…lost. It was like I'd been standing on something the past few years and it just suddenly got yanked out from under me. Christ, I didn't know which way was up. I felt like life was just toying with me. Soon as I went straight, I got knocked back in the gutter. For doing the right thing.

I hadn't been this depressed when mom and dad died in that car accident. This time, what I lost was even more significant. I had tried to play it straight for the first time in my life, and I failed. I thought I failed. I knew I failed. Not only had I failed in attempting something real; I failed to reconcile with the death of my parents. I hadn't justified their deaths by doing them proud. God, I just kept repeating everything I hadn't done. Couldn't see that I had already done what I set out to do. I had depended on the success of this one endeavor to allow me to move past their deaths. I just couldn't accept that their deaths were random; there was no reason for it, no alibi. It was a random, unfortunate thing that I had absolutely no control over. I knew it. I just didn't accept it.

One night I limped home, back to my apartment. I stumbled through the door, drunk out of my mind, and collapsed on the couch. I didn't move, I didn't speak, I didn't do anything at all. Just stayed perfectly still. Felt my own weight. Laid there for awhile, thinking about my shithole of a life, oblivious to everything around me.

There was a hard yet familiar voice behind me.

"Get up asshole."

So, seeing as how I was the only asshole in the room, I stood up. It was a girl's voice, I eventually put that together.

"Turn around."

So I did. And I was face to face with my sister, for the first time in years.

"Chris!"

Her tone changed instantly. She dropped the baseball bat she'd been holding and dove for me. Wrapped her arms around my neck so hard I thought she was trying to kill me.

"I missed you so much," she said, relieved.

She let go as I groaned and collapsed. I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and Claire's face hovering over me.

"Morning," she said sleepily. There were dark circles under her eyes and her voice was weak.

"Hey kid," I said, playfully jabbing her shoulder. "How've things been?"

"Where the hell were you?" she said sternly. "They called me weeks ago to tell me you'd be coming home".

I suddenly remembered why I felt like shit. I slapped my head, instantly regretting it.

"Ow," I said. "I mean, sorry, sis. Things…things didn't go over so hot. I needed some time to myself. To think things over."

"So I see," said Claire, picking up a half-empty whiskey bottle. She turned back to me and set the bottle on the table.

"I got discharged."

"I know. They kind of told me that over the phone."

"What'd they tell you?"

She yawned.

"They said you'd been honorably discharged and would be returning to Chicago within the week," she said. "That was over three weeks ago."

God she looked tired. She was struggling just to keep her eyes open.

"You been up all night lookin' after me sis?" I asked.

"Actually," she yawned, "two nights. Straight."

"What were you doing two nights ago?" I asked her.

"Looking for you," she smiled. She nearly dozed off right as she said it.

"I'm sorry, Claire," I said. "Truth be told I wanted to surprise you."

That made her smile. Her eyes were just open in slits now. "I appreciate the thought," she said.

I glanced down at the baseball bat.

"What exactly were you doing here last night?" I said.

"Just hanging out. I've been coming here a couple nights a week for about a month now. You've got a sweet setup in here," she said. "Guess I shoulda been checking back here more often. Would've made sense, anyway."

"How did you not recognize me when I walked in?" I asked.

She chuckled weakly. "Have you _seen_ yourself when you're drunk?" she said. "Plus I'm not used to you with short hair. Thought you were just some bum looking for a place to stay for the night." She kind of cocked her head in a playful sort of way. "That or a crackhead."

"Speaking of crackheads," I said. "You outta get some sleep. You look like you're on something right now."

Her eyes were almost completely closed. She got up sluggishly and stretched.

"I look that bad?"

"Yes," I laughed. "Your skin's all clammy and you look like you haven't washed your hair in a month."

"I'm running on pure caffeine right now," she said. "Musta had five cups of coffee in the past three hours."

"All the more reason for you to get some sleep," I said. "Bedroom's down the hall next to the bathroom."

She said something completely incomprehensible and dragged herself to my bedroom. She turned the knob and pushed, and slammed her face on the door.

"Awgh," she said, holding her nose.

I couldn't help but laugh. "It opens the other way."

"Thanks for the tip." She opened the door and stepped through. "G'night."

"'night," I said.

I lay back down on the couch. There was a blanket over me and my jacket was draped over a chair. A man couldn't ask for a better sibling.

I reached for the bottle with one hand. The other was over my face. Just as I grasped the neck I stopped. I got up, walked over to the sink, and poured the rest of it down the drain. Then I tossed the bottle in the trash.

I looked around. She'd kept the place pretty clean, or at least cleaner than I'd left it. I frowned when I saw two cigarette butts on an ashtray.

"Still smoking, I see," I said.

I dumped out the ashtray in the sink and ran some water over the ashes. Then I pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one up for myself. I stood in the kitchen awhile. I wasn't really thinking, worrying about anything. It was a nice change. I hadn't had peace and quiet like this in a good long while.

I stood there in my apartment's sad excuse for a kitchen staring through the smoke. It was a long time before I broke my gaze on that spot on the wall, or at least seemed like a long time. After what I gathered to be an hour, I switched spots and walked over to a different spot and did the same thing. Stared through the smoke, listened to the sounds of the city outside and to my own breath.

Johnny Brooks, that was his name. I'd heard a few years back he got hit by a bus going 55 miles an hour. I remember him still. That pudgy face. That sneer. Every little annoying quality that belonged to him added up to one hell of a guy. His parents were rich; his dad was an inventor. He had made some sort of electronic device designed to improve the capabilites of sonar technology that sold for millilons. This is what I learned about people from Johnny: when you have too much money it goes to your head. It's one of those lessons you're inevitably going to learn if you live long enough, and I learned it from him.

He was rich, he was obnoxious, he loved to harass people. He was fat, but strong as hell, too. He had his own little posse of slightly less rich kids that hovered around him like damned leeches trying to suck out some of the false sense of accomplishment and glory he felt in himself. They were his friends for their own protection, because they could say they had about as much money as him, so therefore they were automatically smarter, stronger, and better people than the other, poorer masses. They kept this little gem in the back of their minds at all times, in the spot where people usually keep a sense of standard, mutual respect for others. Johnny didn't have manners, nor did he harbor any kind of respect for anyone but those whose parents had worked themselves into fortune.

He…he wasn't unique at all, not even those traits I and everyone else hated him for. There're a million jackasses around the world just like him. The one thing he has that they don't is a memory. A memory of himself, sitting on the ground and looking up, shocked, at the tall, muscular kid with long, black hair standing over him, and a little girl with a ponytail and blue jeans clutching his arm, shaking and staring at him with wide, contemptuous, triumphant eyes.

It was in the later days of August, when the kids in Chicago were winding down their summers and beginning to feel that heavy, hot stone in their guts. It's a familiar feeling every kid knows: the knowledge that summer's almost over, as is their freedom. We were walking home, Claire and I, from the ice cream store about a mile and a half away from our home. It was hot as hell out, so I had decided to treat her.

"Man," I said, "it's blazing today".

Claire remained silent. There was no need to acknowledge anything, not me speaking or a response to my question. We were content, and it was hot. That's what we both recognized, and there was no need to go any further. You get moments like those a lot, and some people mistake them for awkward silences, so they talk even though they don't need to, and they end up saying something stupid.

Sometimes, though, you get curveballs. Like what she said a few seconds later.

"I'm thinking about getting a motorcycle when I get older."

I glanced down at her. Her persona hadn't changed at all. She was calm, licking a strawberry ice cream cone, keeping pace with me. She didn't even look up.

"Really," I said a moment later. "That's cool."

"Yeah," she said. "I really like motorcycles. I think it'd be fun to have one."

"You know they cost about as much as a car though, right?"

She shrugged. "Cars are boring."

I laughed. I gave her a gentle pat on the back.

"So why do you suddenly want a motorcycle?"

She shrugged again.

"I've always wanted one. I just think they look cool. It's like riding your bike kinda, I guess, only it's way faster. And…I don't know. I just like them."

"I think I've been rubbing off on you a little too much, kiddo," I said, smiling.

I have always seen my sister as a smart, gutsy kid. More normal than me in that she followed the routine more than I did. Go to school, study, stay out of trouble, that sort of thing. She was a bit of a tomboy, but a good kid. I just didn't see her as the "biker chick" type.

"So what kind of motorcycle you thinking of getting?" I asked her. She didn't have time to respond.

She noticed it before I did: a bunch of kids heading toward us, specifically toward us. I picked faces out of them, matched them to kids I knew. Johnny and his "friends". They came out of an empty, weed-ridden lot to our right. In a second or two, they surrounded us. We stopped, and Claire stuck close to me.

"How ya doin', Redfield," Johnny said with a stupid grin on his face. He had a bag of beef jerky in one hand, a can of soda in the other. His friends were grinning and exchanging glances, as if they already knew what was going to happen.

"Hey Johnny," I said, glancing coolly around at the circle of polo-wearing pussies around us. "Just fine, now that you're here."

I made a motion for him to move right.

"Could you move over a bit? Your fat-ass shadow's keeping me cool, but it doesn't cover me all the way."

I gave him a wolfish grin. He just sneered and narrowed his eyes at me.

"So your little girlfriend wants a motorcycle, huh?" he said. He said it like it was an insult. The others were circling us, slowly. Like vultures.

Then he made a big mistake.

"Your sister's a little dyke, you know that?" he laughed. "She's more of a man than you are." The vultures cackled around us. I didn't hear the horns of distant cars or the shouts of kids playing baseball down the street. I didn't taste the ice cream in my mouth. I didn't feel the heat. I just heard the laughter. It completely enveloped my senses, consuming me.

And the day had been going so well before this.

"If you know what's good for you," I said angrily, "you'll apologize to my little sister."

They laughed even harder. It was a joke to them.

"Damn," he said, wiping his brow with his pudgy hands. "It's hot out today."

He reached for my sister's ice cream cone.

I wound up and jacked him right in the nose. He flew a few feet and landed backasswards on the ground. He hadn't realized what had happened- not right away. He looked up at me, confused. Slowly, he brought his hand to his nose. When he pulled it back, his eyes got huge. His hand was covered in blood. He looked back up at me and just stared for a few seconds. The vultures were speechless.

He stumbled back to his feet and, still wide-eyed, looked down at my sister.

"S-s-sorry."

Without another word, he turned and walked away. The rest reluctantly followed.

Claire was holding on to me tight. She was shaking a little bit. Gradually, she relaxed. She looked up at me with a young smile.

"He deserved that."

It took me a few seconds, but I smiled and laughed and nodded my head.

"Yeah he did," I said.

And we walked home together, enjoying the day as we had before, as if it had never happened. The thing is, I never heard another word from fat-ass Johnny Brooks again. He never made another snide remark about me, or my sister, or any of my friends, or really anyone, for that matter. He actually became kinda nervous. When I went into High School, he got sent to a private school somewhere in the North Shore.

It's funny, but that scene replayed itself several times in my head while I was standing around in my kitchen smoking. And each time it did, I kept hearing my mind tell me the same thing over and over again. Not in words, though. Just an idea kept popping into my head. A subtle realization of something I'd known deep down my whole life.

If nothing else, I'm good at protecting people who can't protect themselves.

My cigarette was down to the filter now. I smothered the rest of it in the ashtray and got on my coat. I went for the door, but stopped as I saw myself in the mirror. I was a mess. I hadn't shaved in more than a week and my hair was all messed up and, basically, I looked like a bum. I took my coat off and set it on a chair as I made for the bathroom. I scratched my head and turned on the light in my bathroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Shabby, to say the least. I ran some water over my hands and ran them through my hair. I picked up a comb and ran some water over it, then forced it through my hair. I'd forgotten how easy it is to comb your hair when it's short. I held it up and caught my own glance in the mirror. There was something in my eyes I hadn't noticed before. There was something about them…a dark, powerful, focused look. Something in me had changed.

After cleaning myself up, I turned off the bathroom light and stepped through the door. Quietly, I turned the knob of my bedroom door and eased it open. I peeked inside and saw that Claire was fast asleep, sprawled over my bed half-concealed beneath the sheets. She'd be out for awhile. I left her a note on the counter in the kitchen, then picked up my jacket and walked out the door.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This chapter didn't require NEAR the amount of editing the previous one did, but I think I like how it turned out better than the first chapter. Thanks to everyone been reading so far, and thanks to Carmel BigFace for the review on Chapter 1. :)


	3. Chapter 3: Pizza and Cigarettes

**Chapter 3: Pizza and Cigarettes**

It was a typical gray, chilly, humid day on the streets of Chicago. People in heavy, expensive, woolen overcoats brushed past briskly, intent on keeping some appointment or completing an errand. Others walked by in hooded sweatshirts or windbreakers, hands dug deeply into their pockets, shoulders stiff, trying to overcome the biting cold. Cars drove by quickly, recklessly, the drivers dodging one another while trying to reach their destinations as quickly as possible, regardless of others on the road. There were sirens in the distance and car horns everywhere else. I walked under a railroad bridge as a train thundered across it. I walked past an electronics store with a stack of TVs in the window broadcasting the news.

I walked like I was in a rush. I simply wanted to get to my destination to the exclusion of all other concerns. I was excited, enthralled, invigorated. My life had a purpose once more.

I briskly pushed past a few people as my destination came into view. A man with expensive-looking sunglasses. A guy with a leather jacket and a beard on his face. A young red-headed girl. As I neared the small government building, my heart raced. I stepped inside, feeling at once overcome by the warm, stiff, recycled air and the musty smell of paper and upholstery.

I glanced around. The people working here were exactly the kinds of people I'd always tried _not_ to be: monotonous, stuffy, by-the-book, and basically dull. Nobody looked offensive or different from anyone else. Everything was PC. And there wasn't an ounce of personality in the whole lot of them. The rest were much different. Shy, miserable-looking middle-aged men and women, guys with beer guts and trucker hats, guys with Mohawks and buzz cuts, girls with heavy eye makeup and dyed black hair; black guys, Hispanic guys, Asians, Middle-Eastern and Polish immigrants; many of them overweight, all of them looking hopeless and lost.

I waited in line for probably a half-hour, though it felt about three times as long as that. The sound system that lined the perimeter of the room constantly spewed out generic pop music that nobody's listened to intentionally for at least twenty years. Eventually I got to the front of the line.

"Hi," I said, attempting to sound cheery. The woman behind the desk merely glanced up at me and looked back down at her computer. I was taken aback a bit by her apathy. "I…I'd like to find a job in law enforcement."

"Any experience?" she said lazily, not even having the decency to look at me while she was talking.

"Well," I started. She cut me off.

"If you don't have any training or experience I can't put your name out there, son," she said condescendingly. "The best I can do for you is refer you to some Police Academies, or if you like-"

This time I cut _her_ off.

"Yeah, I have training and experience, just…not quite in law enforcement. I served in the military for a few years, so I have received basic training."

"What rank were you?"

"Captain."

She raised her eyebrows and looked back to her computer, typing away more furiously than before.

"Can I have your name please, honey?"

So I'd gone from "son" to "honey", just like that. She must have been really interested in my case, because from then until I left the office, she treated me with the utmost respect.

"Chris Redfield."

"Captain Chris Redfield, United States Air Force," she repeated, a tinge of sugar in her voice. She typed in a few more words and squinted at the screen.

"Says here you were discharged. Honorable, though." She continued to read into my past. "Hmm. Looks like you got a commendation from one of your commanding officers after you got bounced."

"Bounced". What a charming woman.

In the midst of this thought another one snapped into focus. She had just said I'd been given a commendation. _After_ I'd been discharged.

"Wait-what?" I stammered. "Who? For what?"

"Says Colonel Jonathon Meider gave you a commendation for bravery after you were Court-Martialled.

Good old Colonel Meider. I'd always liked the guy. A bit of a hard-ass at times, but a good guy and a great Commander. And he'd given me a commendation. Me. _After_ I'd been Court-Martialled.

She read on for a few more lines and pulled herself back as she looked up at me with a sweet, yet transparent, smile on her face.

"Well Captain Redfield," she said to me. "I don't think someone with a record like this will have any trouble finding work. Would you like me to put you in the pilot field as well?"

"No thank you," I said. "I really want to get into law enforcement if it's at all possible."

"For you, I'm sure it will be," she said, giving me an even warmer smile than before. She turned back to her computer. "I'll put your name out, but it'll take at least six weeks before you hear from anyone."

"Six weeks?" I said, irritated and confounded.

"Sorry honey, but that's the beaurocracy for you," she crooned.

She printed out a few sheets of paper and filed them away. Then she handed me a card.

"If they don't call you honey, we will. If you have any questions our info is on there."

I took the card and quickly looked it over before looking back at the portly woman in front of me.

"Thanks," I said, smiling and nodding my head towards her.

"No problem sugar," she said. "Good luck."

Claire was likely still asleep, so I opened the door as quietly as I could and crept into my apartment. The lady at the agency had said it would take at least six weeks before I'd start getting job offers. What the hell was I supposed to do until then?

"Fucking assholes," I yawned as I melodramatically tossed my jacket onto the couch. I stood and scratched my head as I looked around my apartment. Not much to do.

I opened a small cabinet near the TV and started thumbing through old movies. "Point Break", "Die Hard", "Halloween,"…as usual, too many good choices to choose just one. So I grabbed a bunch and put them on top of the VCR.

I was about halfway through "Night of the Living Dead" when I heard the shrill, dry creak of my bedroom door opening. I turned my head just in time to see Claire, looking very much like one the zombies devouring the young teens on my TV screen, dragging herself into the shady corner of my apartment I called my kitchen.

"Wha time is et…" she mumbled.

"You tell me," I said, pointing to the side of the clock on the wall facing her. "I can't see it from here."

She sniffed and looked at the clock. The circles around her eyes had gotten even darker.

"Half past five," she groaned.

"What have we learned?" I asked her, doing my very best to sound irritating.

She gave me a peeved look and rolled her eyes. "Caffine is no substitute for sleep," she groaned.

"Well, sometimes it is," I said plainly. I didn't look back at her, but I could tell she was giving me her notorious "death stare".

Siblings are fun.

Just as she began to retaliate with some drowsy, smartass remark, I cut her off. "So what do you feel like eating tonight? My treat."

I turned my head toward her and betrayed no emotion on my face. Her lips were scrunched up; she was mad. "Anything at all, Claire. Your choice."

She relaxed a little bit and rolled her eyes again, but this time submissively. "You know what," she began. She shrugged as she slowly rubbed her stomach and said, "I just feel like eating a shitload of something. Anything".

"Pizza sound good?"

"Always," she said as she disappeared back into the shadows of the hallway. "Know where my jacket is?"

"I don't know, Claire. I don't usually wear it."

I turned off the VCR just as she returned, wearing her jacket.

"Never mind. Found it."

I got up, put on my jacket, swiped my keys off the table and opened the door for Claire, but not before tussling her already messy hair, which she had futilely attempted to comb out.

"Meh," she groaned as she stepped into the hallway with the ratty brown and red carpet.

I made sure the knob was locked and flipped off the lights before closing the door and locking it behind me. Claire didn't wait. She was already halfway down the hall by the time I turned around. I jogged up to her.

"So which pizza place you feel like tonight?" I asked her.

"Which place do you have in mind?" she replied.

"I'm thinking McCarthy's," I said as we reached the elevator.

That's all it took to wake her up some. "Yay!" she said. I pushed the call button.

In minutes, we were on the street, taking in the cold, muggy Chicago air.

"So you gonna level it with me or not?" Claire said.

"On what?" I said.

"On why you're here in Chicago, instead of an Air Base in the Middle East."

I swallowed. She looked at me.

"Long story?"

I nodded.

"Then how 'bout we wait 'till we're sitting down for it?" she said.

"Perfect."

It was after a mile and a half of walking that we finally reached the pizza place. It was a place Claire and I had frequented since childhood. We usually came here after movies or because of special occasions. And this was certainly a special occasion.

The owner had come to be good friends with Claire and I. Great friends, actually. He was an old buddy of my dad from the Marines during the Korean War. Can't say I know much about him aside from that, though, except for the fact that he makes the most unbelievable pizza on the face of the earth.

We rounded the corner and saw the place across the street. You know that feeling you got when you were a kid when you were going to see a movie or go to an amusement park, or something like that? That warm, electric glow in your chest? Well, I still get that feeling when I see the front of McCarthy's restaurant. It's a little piece of my childhood I've held on to. It's a place of good feelings and good memories. It's a place I can always count on to cheer me up and put me at ease, no matter what's going on in my life. Claire and I practically lived there during the first three weeks after our parent's demise. If only the food weren't so damn expensive…

I pushed through the doors of the restaurant just as the jukebox started playing "Have A Drink On Me" by AC/DC. We waded through the crowd and eventually found a well-lit booth against the wall, where we sat down across from each other. I pulled out a pack of smokes and my lighter and lit one up. Then I noticed that Claire was staring at the lighter. I didn't say anything. I set it down on the table and Claire kept her eyes locked on Dad's old lighter, still shining despite its age, reflecting the two of us on its surface. A ghost of a smile snuck onto her face after awhile.

"You know, it's been four years to the day since mom and dad died," she said quietly.

She was right. This was the exact day that, four years ago, our parents had been killed.

Her eyes remained fixed on the lighter.

"I miss them."

I took the cigarette out of my mouth and joined her in staring.

"I do too. Every day."

After a few moments, Claire shook her head, reached across the table and snatched the pack from my hand.

"Gimme one of those."

It was the first time I'd ever seen my sister smoke. The last time I'd seen her at all was when she was fourteen, a clever, young middle school-goer. Now she was different in every conceivable way. She was seventeen now. As I looked at her from across the table, I realized just how much she'd changed in the few years I'd been out of her life. She was an adult now. She was mature. And she had come to her own as a person. She was now grown up, and despite all she'd been through, her personality hadn't hardened at all. She was still the sweet little girl I'd known four years ago, just…older. Wiser. She had gone through the same obstacles I had, if not more, and yet she hadn't given in to despair. It seemed like she just moved past everything she had dealt with over the past few years without dwelling on it for even a moment. Or maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe she just kept it tucked away in some dark place in her subconscious, never allowing it to see the light of day.

As I contemplated all this, she stuck the end of the cigarette in the open flame and slowly brought it up to her mouth. She took in a little at a time, drawing in air and smoke, then steadily releasing it into the already hazy atmosphere of the restaurant. She'd been smoking infrequently for almost a year, or at least that's what she'd said in some of the letters she'd sent me when I was still in the service. Come to think of it, she'd almost seemed defiant in her admission to picking up this dirty little habit I used to exclusively call my own. Maybe this was just her way of getting back at me for leaving her to fend for herself.

"Well well," said a voice to my right, instantly pulling me out of my head. "You know, I thought it was you, but I just had to get a closer look for myself to be sure."

"McCarthy! Hey!" I exclaimed, putting on the most cheerful façade I could muster. I extended my right arm to him, and was treated to a strong, hearty, familiar handshake.

Charlie McCarthy was a hefty, barrel-chested man in his early fifties. He was taller than me by about six inches and had rich, green eyes and a receding hairline. His hairless dome was almost always slicked and shiny with sweat, and it seemed like no matter how good a razor he used, he could never quite get rid of his five 'o clock shadow. He had a nose that kind of made him look a bit like the late John Belushi and a serious limp in his right knee from a shrapnel wound he sustained in the war.

"How you guys doing tonight," he asked us. A homely, satisfied look bathed his face.

"Pretty good, Chuck," Claire said happily, cigarette butt lodged loosely between two of her fingers. "Business booming as usual?"

"You know it, little lady," he said with a heavy chuckle.

"Good to see not much has changed in the few years I've been gone," I said, looking around the place.

"You kidding?" McCarthy said with an almost incredulous look on his face. "Uniforms!" he said, tugging on the sweat-stained blue button-down shirt that stuck to his greasy skin under a dirty, white apron, bearing the restaurant's name on the left breast. "Pool table!" he quickly continued, gesturing to a large pool table in the corner, currently being used by a pair of bikers.

I laughed softly at him…or rather with him. "Right," I said.

"Sharp kid like you, I can't believe that wasn't the first thing that came out of your mouth!" he said. "Thought you'd be all like, 'Hey, McCarthy! My man! That's a nice-lookin' uniform you got on there! Much better'n the old ones!' I put some real money into these, tryin' to look professional for a change. And you, one of my best customers, don't even pick up on it!" He folded his arms and looked at Claire. "Some people, eh?"

We knew he was just giving us a hard time, and he knew that we knew. He had a gift for making people feel at home in his presence. Claire laughed her sparkly, girlish laugh while I shook my head and sighed.

"My bad, Chuck," I laughed. "The uniforms look great."

"Ah, fuck the uniforms," he said, grinning. "How are _you_ this fine evening?"

"Fine," I lied.

"Yeah?" he said. "How's the AF treatin' you?" He pulled up a chair from a nearby vacant table and rested his folded hands on the surface of the booth's table.

"Well, actually-" I began.

"I can't tell you how many times we got bailed out by flyboys in Korea," he said, seemingly unable to contain his own jovial nature. "See, the North Koreans are tenacious sons of bitches. Well trained, well equipped, and just plain fanatical in a firefight, like most Asian soldiers."

I didn't interrupt him because I knew how much he enjoyed talking about his army days. He didn't quite look back on them as the best time of his life, but he was extremely proud of himself and my father. He had reason to be prideful, too: he had been among the landing party at Inchon, one of the greatest American victories of the war.

"And then you got the Chinese," he rambled on, "who just come at you ten at a time, regardless of what you throw at 'em." He was motioning with his hands, accentuating his words with gestures of a tide of people rushing down a hill. "And the arty, forget about it. Didn't do much but keep 'em on their toes. The real heroes, besides the Marines of course," he said with a self-satisfied smile, "were the flyboys. Just you be sure to keep that between you and me, sonny. That is, don't let no Marines know I just said that. As much as we secretly loved the flyboys for bailing us out time and time again, there's always been a little uneasiness between the Corps and the AF. But hell, I'm sure you know all about that," he said, eyes twinkling and a jack-o-lantern grin persisting on his rugged face.

He lingered without a word for a few moments as his gaze drifted to the dancing flame of the lighter on the table. "I can't tell you how proud your daddy was of you. Hell, even I thought you was crazy at first, skippin' college to go right into the service. Your daddy, though. He always had faith in you, that you knew what you was doin' with your life. Never doubted you." He looked toward Claire. "Same with you, little lady. Your daddy and your momma always talked 'bout how smart you are. Your momma always said she just couldn't believe how sweet and innocent you were. Sweetest thing she ever saw," he said to her with a warm look. The cigarette in the corner of her mouth bobbed as she nodded and smiled at him.

He cleared his throat and slapped the table twice. "But hey, where are my manners," he said. "Sorry to cut you off, Chris. But yeah, how's the AF?"

"Actually," I said with a flat, "brace yourself" look on my face, "I got discharged."

His expression changed immediately. "Aww, no," he said, a dumbfounded look on his face. "What happened?"

I glanced over at Claire and realized I hadn't yet told her the story either. She was visibly eager to hear what I had to say. "Well," I began, and then proceeded to tell the two of them about my entire career as a pilot. A lot of it, especially the first half, was stuff I'd already written to Claire about. I told them about basic training. I told them about my testing, how they had said I've got some of the best pair of eyes they'd ever seen. I told them about some of my missions. My squadmates. My superiors. Lieutenant Bromley. Everything. I spilled my guts and told them everything I knew or had experienced, and when I was done I sighed deeply. I mean, really deeply. Profoundly deep. It was like I'd been holding a single breath for weeks, months, years, and had finally just let it go. I felt a great weight lift off my shoulders and I even managed to smile sincerely when I was done.

McCarthy shook his head and with wide eyes let out a high-pitched "whoo". Claire was staring at me in a way that kind of made me uneasy. I'd never seen her look that way before, not at me. She was silent, her face was expressionless, but her eyes were twinkling. Honest to god, I saw a kind of soft, blue light in the back of her already icy blue iris.

"Hell of a tale there, buddy," McCarthy said at last. He punched my arm. Not just a friend punch. A man punch. I half expected him to yell "ooh-rah!" after he did it, but instead he just kept his hands on his lap and looked me over. "You did the right thing," he said after a few seconds. "And hey, at least you got honorably discharged. And that commendation, that's a big deal, too." He looked at me hard. "Don't get hung up on what that asshole did. You should be proud of yourself. You faced a challenge, something real, and you did the right thing, even though it meant going against a superior officer, a guy you already knew was a fucking incompetent asshole. Doing what you did took some serious balls."

I nodded at him. "Well, I appreciate that. Thanks."

"Hell yeah," he said. "Hey," he said, standing up suddenly, "I almost forgot we was in a restaurant," he laughed. "What would you two like to drink?"

Actually, I'd forgotten, too. "Yeah. Uh, how 'bout a-"

I started to say "beer", but I decided I'd drank enough over the past week and I should probably-

"He'll have a beer, the usual," Claire said.

Before I could protest, she cut me off again. "Really, Chris, it's okay. Don't worry about it." Her lips were curled into a small, tomboyish smile and the glow in her eyes persisted. "I don't mind. And no, I'm not just saying that I don't mind when really I do. I don't mind tonight."

"Well alright," I said. "I guess I'll have a beer."

"And I'll have a coke," she said.

"Righteo," McCarthy said. "Be back in a flash."

He limped away from our table towards the bar.

A pause. An awkward silence.

"That was some story," Claire said finally.

I turned to her. "Huh?"

"The story you just told us," she said. "About the Air Force."

"Yup," I acknowledged. "All of it happened."

She paused for a few seconds and then laughed. "So was that the same Bromley you've been bitching about for two years?"

"The same asshole."

She laughed a hollow laugh. She looked down at the table and then back up at me. That same look in her eyes. It vaguely looked like admiration, a look of hers I am very familiar with, but it was obscured by something else. There was something she wasn't telling me. She wasn't telling me, but whatever it was, it was seeping through her eyes, trying to make itself known to me. She had something she wanted to say, something important. I just couldn't tell what was clouding it over.

She pulled her gaze away from me, toward the corner of the table, her eyes darting around quickly, though never leaving that one spot. She suddenly began to smile in a mischievous way and looked back at me. Only now, the glow was gone.

"So hotshot, your birthday is coming up in a couple weeks."

She was right. I had completely forgotten.

"Hey, it is," I said, suddenly excited. "Whadjya get me?"

She pretended to think hard. "Hmm…what did I get you?" she said as she tapped her chin and looked at the ceiling. "Oh, right! I bought you a new car!"

My heart stopped. "Seriously?" _What an AWESOME sister I have!_ I thought to myself.

"Yeah," she said. "A brand new, 1996 Ford Mustang," she said proudly. "A bright red one with racing stripes and a neon sign on the roof that says 'gullible' in huge letters."

_What a brat._

I frowned at her. I glared at her. And she laughed her ass off.

She laughed her ass off. She was laughing. She was actually laughing.

"What have we learned?" she said, snidely yet sweetly.

I rolled my eyes melodramatically, imitating her from earlier. "From now on, don't mess with Claire when she's cranky and out of sleep."

"That's the one," she said, winking at me and smiling sweetly.

A bottle of Old Style and a tall glass of soda filled with ice and a straw slammed down on the table. Connected to the two drinks were the rough, hairy tree trunk arms of Chuck McCarthy.

"Here ya go, kids," he said. "Now, what're ya hungry for?" He took out a pad of paper and an expensive-looking pen as he awaited our orders with eager eyes.

"Well Claire, like I said before, tonight is my treat. Order absolutely anything you want."

Smiling gleefully, she looked up at Chuck and made her order: one large pizza, pepperoni; a couple of fried chicken legs; and, 'of course', an onion log. Before I could ask her if she intended to eat everything herself, she glanced over to me and added, "to share".

I ordered a large garbage pizza. The thing about McCarthy's pizzas is that a "small" pizza means a small pizza, a "medium" pizza means a medium pizza, and a "large" pizza means a "feed a small Ethiopian village for a week" pizza. There were a few reasons why we, and most of Chuck's customers, always ordered large. For one, the pizza was amazing. Though it wasn't really a well-known spot, those who knew of the restaurant, when asked, usually said it was the best in the city. When you eat something that good, common sense says, well…you'd want as much of it as possible. See, McCarthy, being as business-savvy as he is, changed the pricing on portion sizes so that the price of a medium pizza and the price of a large pizza were so close that you may as well have just gotten the large, because even though people never finish the whole thing in one sitting, they reheat just as good as when they first came out of the oven. So a trip to McCarthy's means dinner for one night, and lunch for one or two days, depending on the amount of food one consumes per day.

That's why I was so surprised when Claire ordered a large for herself, _and_ ample side dishes.

And finished most of it.

After Claire scarfed down the platter of fried chicken, onion rings and about half of the pizza, she let out a deep sigh. Her eyes were closed and a smile of deep satisfaction was set on her face. My face, however, was painted with a much different expression.

"How…did you eat all that?" I said finally.

She opened one eye and, still smiling, shrugged a shoulder, then closed her eye again. I stared at my sister, the girl with the lightning-fast metabolism. She had just consumed about six pounds of food and drink in less than twenty minutes. In all probability, she wouldn't gain a pound from it. Now she was sitting in the booth across from me, half slouched under the table, hands resting comfortably behind the ponytail she'd kept since she was ten years old.

I nibbled on a slice of pizza and looked toward the clock on the wall. It'd been about an hour since we had left my apartment. I took a sip of beer and followed it up with a drag on my cigarette. Claire seemed to be asleep.

McCarthy stopped by once more before we left. He seemed momentarily shocked by how much food we had consumed between the two of us, but shrugged and pulled up another chair.

"I didn't know she smoked," he said in a low voice, motioning over to Claire.

"Much to my dismay," I sighed. "She's been doing it for about a year, best of my knowledge. Even younger than I was when I started, too."

He gave me a stern look and then shook his head. "How was your dinner?" he said, opening a crumpled newspaper.

I gave him a slothful "okay" sign. "Great as usual, Chuck."

We sat like that for a time, making small talk and drinking in the corner of the warm, hazy, and increasingly more vacant restaurant. At one point, Claire started snoring lightly, which caused Chuck and I to laugh. We briefly contemplated drawing something on her face with a permanent marker, but decided it wasn't the night for that.

Then there was silence between the two of us. Occasionally Chuck would mumble something about an article or chuckle quietly. I glanced at the clock once more just as Chuck mumbled something about an article saying the price of flu shots in Chicago would supposedly decrease next season, thanks to the generosity of an international pharmaceutical corporation. The clock read eight at night exactly.

"We should probably get going," I said. Chuck looked up from his paper and back at the clock.

"Shit," he remarked, "it's been two hours already."

The dinner rush had died down slightly, and Chuck's extensive staff had the restaurant covered. As I slid out of the booth he stood up and extended his hand. I took it and once again felt my hand crushed in his bear claw grip.

"You take care of yourself kid, and feel free to drop in any time."

I looked back at the table. "What about our bill?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "Forget the bill. On the house."

My eyebrows raised in welcome surprise. I nodded and thanked him and casually slapped his shoulder as I started to gather up what remained of our entrées. When I had the two pizzas in boxes stacked on top of each other I lightly rapped Claire on the shoulder.

"Hey, kid. Wake up."

Her eyes flew open. Her forehead was sweaty. Really sweaty. And she was trembling slightly. She brought her right palm to her face but stopped when she realized she still had a lit cigarette in her hand. She then looked down at her legs.

"Shit."

She got up out of the booth and groaned as she patted the ashes away from a small, newly formed hole on the upper thigh of her jeans.

"You okay, sis?" I asked her. "You don't look so hot."

She pulled her attention away from the burn hole in her jeans and back to the smoking butt between her fingers. She leaned across the booth's table and forcefully jammed it into the ashtray. She pulled back and slapped her hands clean of ash or dirt, or whatever else was on her hands.

"I'm fine."

There was venom in her voice.

On our way out of the restaurant we waved goodbye to McCarthy, who was taking orders off a young couple who had just come in a few minutes ago.

I set the boxes down on a table and told Claire to wait. I went over to the bar and whistled at the bartender. He was a gaunt, pale man with fiery red hair and a slight overbite that had worked at the restaurant for years.

"Listen man," I said, reaching into my pocket and producing a wad of bills, "give this to Chuck. He'll know who it's from."

I handed him a couple twenties. He took them and smiled out of the corner of his mouth. "You got it, Chris."

I saluted him in appreciation and went back to pick up the boxes. Claire still looked a little…frazzled.

"You sure you're okay?" I asked again.

She shook her head and held out her hand. "Don't worry about me."

We pushed through the double doors of McCarthy's Pizza and bar and out into the cold, muggy Chicago night, leaving the warm atmosphere and hearing the soft music of the jukebox grow softer and then cease altogether.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Sorry I haven't updated in awhile, but between final exams and me being lazy, I mean, I was swamped. Yeah, as you've probably noticed already, this chapter was hella long compared to the first two. Thanks again to everyone who've been reading so far, and I hope you'll continue to do so.


	4. Chapter 4: Women

**Chapter 4: Women…**

"So…do you need a ride back to the Stevenson's place, or do you just wanna crash here tonight?"

Claire hadn't said a word since we left McCarthy's. Her jaw was clenched shut, and she kept her eyes focused dead ahead. She walked stiffly, angrily, like she was trying to punish the very ground beneath her with the ferocious stomps of her sneakered feet.

Her tainted expression didn't change once. I racked my brain, trying to figure out why she was acting the way she was. _Did I say something? No, she was fine throughout dinner, and I didn't see any of her usual signs that she was mad_. My mind quickly skimmed through the events of the night._ She fell asleep and forgot to put out her cigarette, so it burned a hole in her favorite pair of jeans. Wait…are those even her favorite pair? No…no, it doesn't matter. That can't be it. Is she just mad that I woke her up? Probably not. No, definitely not. _

Then I remembered something else. When McCarthy came back to our table for the third time, Claire had been seemingly asleep. She was snoring slightly. Claire's snoring was something I'd teased her about for years, until one day she actually got angry, really angry, and demanded I never bring it up again. It was then that I had realized that it was one of her greatest insecurities, something that she read in her own mind as a blemish against her femininity. McCarthy and I had been laughing and joking and poking fun at her, and at one point, I couldn't be sure, but I could've sworn I saw her eyelid flicker or open just slightly. That would mean…

She'd heard us.

I gulped as silently as I could manage. She lead the way confidently, yet angrily. She knocked open the front doors to my apartment building and stormed over to the elevator. She thrust a slender index finger at the "up" button, but she may as well have hit the damn thing with a hammer. She folded her arms and leered at the numbers above the doors, tapping her foot. I glanced back at Mike, the concierge, who flattened his mouth and glanced at my sister, as if to ask what was the matter. I shrugged.

I decided to get another look at her sour face. I edged forward ever so slowly, and just caught the edge of a shiny buildup of tears in her left eye before she abruptly turned away, blatantly aware that I was looking at her.

Had our jokes really pissed her off this much?

The elevator door opened and she stepped in. I followed closely. As I stepped through the doorway, I tried to get her to look at me by looking directly at her. She quickly glanced away, toward the corner of the elevator. I pressed the button leading up to my floor. Apparently she intended to spend the night. I expected her to go first, so I stayed where I was. However, Claire stayed exactly where she was. She finally looked at me, motioning with her hands for me to go first. I did so without a word. _What the hell is wrong with her?_

I strode down the hallway to my apartment, hearing Claire's soft footsteps behind me. I turned the key and pushed the heavy oak door open, taking in the familiar scent of my apartment. Claire briskly pushed past me and unzipped her jacket, angrily pulling it off and whipping it at one of my couches.

She stepped over to the picture window and stopped, arms folded, staring out into the dark city, illuminated by thousands of tiny pinpoints of light. I briefly contemplated the irony that, because of all those millions of tiny lights on the ground, it was impossible to see any stars over the city.

After awhile I heard a wheezing sound come from her. Slowly, softly at first, then heavier. She shuddered and covered her face with her small palm, then broke out into full, choking sobs.

I took my time moving to her, trying not to seem frantic or threatening in any way. She buried her face in both of her hands. I wrapped my muscular bulk around her. She felt tiny in my arms, though still much bigger than when she was thirteen.

She surprised me by pushing me away and walking toward the couch, where she stood, still sobbing, her back to me. She was holding her arms and shuddering as if she were cold. I stared at her. Something was seriously wrong. _Why is she doing this_? I thought to myself. _What did I do_? _What is she not telling me?_

All at once, it hit me.

"_You know, it's been four years to the day since Mom and Dad died."_

She continued to sob. Tremors ran up and down her body as her emotions took physical form. It seemed to weaken her. She sank to her knees and sobbed louder than ever.

Her anguished sobs drowned out every other ambient sound in my apartment. And I stood there, watching my baby sister cry on the floor of my apartment, feeling my heart break, feeling powerless to help her. After awhile I approached her again. Silently, I picked her up by her shoulders, walked her over to the couch, and sat her down. She settled herself and sat for awhile, clutching a pillow and staring at the floor, gasping and sniffling.

After awhile, she managed to speak.

"You…_hic_…know…_sniff…_I really…hated you…for awhile…after you…_hic_… left…"

She looked up at me, waiting for a response.

I remained silent.

"We lost…_hic_…both our parents…_hic…_and still…we managed to…resume somewhat normal lives…" she locked eyes with me, shooting an icy glare my way, "…and then you…_sniff_…bailed on me."

I remained silent.

She sat up and inhaled deeply. "That's how I felt for a long time," she continued, her condition quickly improving, "a really long time. I honestly thought…_sniff_…for awhile that you just got tired of taking care of me, so you ran away." She paused. "I thought you just didn't care."

"Claire, it wasn't like that at all," I protested.

She looked at me hard and then turned away. "I know." She wiped her eyes. "I knew deep down, but I just couldn't convince myself." She curled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. "You just…" she trailed off.

I leaned forward. "I just…?"

She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against her crunched legs and as she did so, fresh tears began to flow, though this time, bereft the violent sobs.

"You just don't know how hard it was for me, Chris. You'll never know. You'll never know how I felt every time I saw my friends get picked up by their moms and dads after school, off to happy homes, living normal, happy lives. You'll never know how hard it was for me to adjust to them being gone, and to have you take both their places. And the guilt! I had to live with _guilt_ on top of everything, Chris!"

"Why guilt?" I asked her.

"Because here was my brother, my best friend, trying so _fucking_ hard to fill their places and still be the same big brother I'd grown up with, the same guy I'd looked up to since I was a toddler, a guy who was sacrificing all his time and money to make me feel like nothing bad had ever happened to me…" she stopped, then looked at me. "To either of us. And here _I_ was, this ungrateful little brat, thinking and acting like it just wasn't good enough. Chris, I…I felt like I was insulting you by wanting Mom and Dad back. And all of this just weighed me down every single day of my life, and I _tried_ to deal with it, but it was just too much."

I was shocked and heartbroken by everything she was telling me, but I couldn't blame her. It had been hard for me, too. And she had felt _guilty_ about wishing Mom and Dad were still around?

"Those times you sent me off on vacation to Grandma and Grandpa's? I missed you so much, Chris. I mean, I love our grandparents, or, loved them anyway…but I missed you. I missed being home. I just missed feeling normal and safe." She sighed deeply. "I still do."

"Claire, I'm sorry, I really am," I said. "I tried my best. I just wanted you to grow up with some stability, and I'll admit, I wasn't always there for you…"

"Oh, shut up, Chris," she said flatly. "You did a great job. A terrific job. I couldn't have expected any more from you. But when they died, you were nineteen. You were already grown up and out of the house. I was thirteen, for God's sake! No matter how well you did, it just wasn't the same. It wasn't the same as having a mom or a dad." She stretched her legs and stared at the ceiling. "And then we come back to the guilt. But see, I was actually warming up to the…adjustments we had to make in our lives. I still missed them every second I was awake, but I was finally getting used to it. That was when you decided to split and leave me with the Stevensons."

I looked at the ground.

"And it wasn't even a gradual change either. You left…_really_ abruptly, Chris. I mean, one minute you're home and I'm home and everything's running smooth, you know, business as usual, then suddenly you're like, 'Hey! Guess what, Claire? I'm gonna sign up for the Air Force and go overseas and probably get killed while you go off to live with an old couple you barely know!'"

She wasn't looking at me. She paused for a few brief moments to look at the wall, sigh, and shake her head.

"And that was when I needed you more than ever, Chris. I was finishing Middle school, which was no picnic to begin with, and I was going into High School. And I got sick of all the pressure I felt building up from trying to deal with everything. I was finally going to tell you everything. I was gonna come to you, probably break down, and just let everything out. God, I'd been trying so hard to be strong about everything for so long and I just couldn't take it any more. And then, just in the midst of all this, you came to me and told me you were leaving, and before I could muster up the courage to talk to you, you left."

It was at this point that I found _myself_ on the verge of tears. I took a few moments to force down the lump in my throat before I responded.

"Claire, if I had known you needed me that much, I never would have left," I said.

She smiled and nodded. "I wanted to think so. And a part of me still did. But I just…hated you…so much, and I still don't completely understand why."

She looked up at me, her eyes incongruously puffy and red while simultaneously a sharp, piercing blue. She smiled and even laughed a little.

"You're my brother, and I love you. And no matter how crazy I get, the best part of me always will." The look on her face told me she was completely sincere. She didn't so much as blink once.

"None the less," she said, pulling her gaze away from me, "my emotions ran away with me, and for a couple years I just felt this burning hatred for you. Well, actually I don't know if it was necessarily hatred, but I do know that I was insanely pissed off at you. I think what cinched it was when you sold the house. That was the last piece of my childhood, my old, normal life I had left. Seeing it sold off to some random family that could never really appreciate it as much as I did just made me crazy."

"Claire, I can't tell you how sorry I am," I said to her pleadingly.

She held her hand in front of my face. "Let me finish," she said.

"See, despite everything, I would still worry about you subconsciously every day. And when I got those letters from you I had really mixed feelings. See, on one hand, I was happy to hear from you, and glad to know that you were safe. On the other hand, your letters were always so upbeat and cheery. It almost sounded like you were having the time of your life while I was rotting away in Chicago, just wishing to God you'd come home, dreading the day I'd get a phone call and some army guy would tell me you'd been…you know…"

I saw another buildup of tears in her already saturated eyes, but this time she didn't turn or try to hide them.

"If you hadn't made it home, I'd have been completely alone. No family whatsoever. And that was like gasoline on the fire, Chris. It just seemed so reckless and inconsiderate of you, and it pissed me off."

She stopped briefly and took a deep breath. Her face was flushed. She sighed heavily and continued.

"That's why I was surprised that when they called me to tell me you'd be coming home for good, I got really excited. After those two years of hating you and hating the world, I realized that deep down I still loved you, at least enough to forgive you. I thought back and realized you'd really always been there for me. Even when you went overseas, I'd still get letters from you every single week. Sometimes twice a week. And you'd always ask me how I was doing, if I needed anything, and how you couldn't wait to go on leave so you could visit me. And you've always been really supportive of me. You taught me everything I know: how to act, how to treat others, how to think for myself and not just follow the crowd. You taught me how to survive in the real world. You beat up bullies for me."

I smiled when she said that, the episode with Johnny Brooks running through my head once more.

"Plus, you assumed guardianship of me when you were just nineteen years old." She stopped and looked at me intensely. A shiny layer of tears coated her warm, sharp eyes and when that small light behind her eyes returned, that same bluish glow I had seen in the restaurant, her tears magnified it, making it almost seem like it lit up the room. Then, in a soft voice, she said, "Everything I still have, I have because of you, Chris."

I smiled at her, feeling a mixture of pride and gratitude, tinged with a deep streak of sadness and regret. I opened my arms to her, and she climbed across the couch and into my grasp. She curled up in my arms, sniffling, resting her head on my chest.

After a few moments of contented silence, she said plainly, in almost a whisper, "That's why I don't deserve your sympathy."

I looked down at her, confused. "How's that?"

She buried her head deeper in my chest. "Because after all you'd done for me, I still underestimated the hell out of you. I had wrongfully accused you of abandoning me, and after a year or two of sorting things out I managed to satisfy myself with the conclusion that I was reading way too much into what you did. You weren't _betraying_ me," she said as though the word revolted her, "you were just doing what you wanted to do. You were living your own life, and I selfishly expected you to hold back for my sake. But I overlooked something big, and I didn't realize it until a few hours ago, when you told me and Chuck all about your career as a pilot. I realized that, you weren't doing any of it because you enjoyed it. You weren't doing it to fulfill some long-lost adolescent daydream of being a fighter pilot. You were doing it because you felt the same as me: you wanted to get over missing Mom and Dad. You were trying to move on with your life, and for you that meant doing something you'd always wanted to do." She looked up at me with the timidity of some small, helpless animal. "Am I right?"

"Close," I said after giving myself a few seconds to think. "But I didn't join the Air Force to forget about them. Just the opposite. I joined the Air Force because I wanted to honor their memory. Understand Claire, you give me way too much credit," I laughed weakly. "I kept telling Mom and Dad that I was going to join up straight out of High School, and they were behind me one hundred percent. The whole family was. Even you. But I didn't do it. I spent a year after High School dicking around, wasting my time at a dead-end job because I was scared. I was scared of joining up and I was scared of leaving my old life and Mom and Dad and you behind. I was scared of my life changing. In the back of my head, there was this voice, and it kept telling me that I didn't really _have_ to do anything. I could keep playing it safe and eventually I'd get around to it, just not right then. And then one night I get a call from some guy who tells me my parents are dead."

I had to stop there. All the old memories, the ones that weren't already permanently in my head came rushing back all at once. I had to take a few seconds to gather myself before I could continue.

"And I get this call, and I realize that I'm too late. I waited too long. And now Mom and Dad will never get to see me do anything with my life. I'll never be able to show them how their efforts on me weren't wasted. All I can really do, Claire, is try to honor their memory."

Silence. Silence from both of us. I guess we were both thinking deeply in those minutes that passed in silence…about exactly the same things. We're close, her and I. Sometimes it's scary how close. And I think we had one of those moments there, in my darkened living room, where the strength of our connection showed.

Claire started laughing. Giggling at first, just short, quiet, bubbly giggles. Then they grew. They grew into full-blown laughter, and I joined in. I had no idea why. But it felt as if we had both been let in on some elaborate practical joke, and we both understood it at exactly the same time.

"Oh my god," she eventually choked out. "Our lives fucking _suck_!_"_

That only multiplied our laughter. We laughed out all our energy, all our pain and sadness, but not completely. It was like emptying a trashcan. Eventually, I knew (and I think she did too) it would build up again, but for now we were free from it. It felt good.

The last of our energy left us and gradually, our laughter died down. I was amazed how different I felt right away. My living room seemed new and alien to me, the familiar scents and noises of the one-bedroom apartment fresh yet familiar. Even Claire looked different. She seemed to be smiling, though not quite visibly. Smiling with her eyes. She had this glowing, invisible aura around her, a vibe that told me she was totally centered and at peace with everything.

Claire ran her hand through her hair and lay back on the couch. I tussled her hair, revitalizing her laughter and mine.

"You know, you can't make it any more messy than it already is," she said.

"Is that a challenge?" I said, reaching for her frizzy scalp once more.

"Don't!" she yelped, laughing as she flailed her hands against mine.

"Ow!" I said, retracting my hands. "You cut me."

"Girls have sharp nails," she said. "Let that be a lesson to you."

There were two scratches on the top of my left hand. One of them actually drew blood.

Claire noticed this as well. "Oh, shit," she said, "I really did cut you!"

"Yeah," I said, rubbing the wound. "I suppose this makes us even."

That quickly soured her expression. "Chris, come on," she said. "I'm really sorry. I feel really bad about this whole thing. Shit, I always have. I used to get nightmares where I'd see you die, and the last thing I'd said to you was 'burn in hell' or something really nasty like that. Then I'd always wake up feeling like complete shit. Sweating, shaking…you know. The Stevensons always thought it was just some hormonal whatchyacallit."

"So you never told them anything?"

"Chris, I just barely got up the courage to tell _you_ all this. You really think I was gonna tell the Stevensons anything?"

Her following sigh turned into a whimper. I offered another hug, which she took.

"I forgive you," I said quietly.

"Thanks," she whispered.

"Now then," I said, pushing her away, "you never answered my question. You gonna crash here tonight or do you want me to take you back home?"

"Chris, as far as I'm concerned, the only real home I have is your shitty apartment," she said with an impish smile. As casually as she said it, I knew she was completely serious.

"Then you get the couch bed," I said.

"Cool," she said. "That means I get the TV."

"Don't stay up too late, though," I said with a mock-parental tone.

"No promises," she replied, tearing the cushions off of the couch and flinging them across the room.

I started heading for my room, but before I had gotten far, Claire stopped me.

"Oh wait, hold on a second," she said suddenly, fishing her jacket out of the pile of cushions and reaching into one of the pockets. She pulled out something small and square, like a box of playing cards. She strode over to me evenly and extended it to me. "Want 'em?"

It was a carton of cigarettes. I took them without a word as I stared into her eyes, waiting for an explanation.

"I don't think I'll need these, anymore," she shrugged. "I never really smoked that much to begin with. Just every once in awhile or on really special occasions."

"You made it sound like you were doing a pack a day in your letters," I said.

She shrugged again. "I lied."

"Jesus, you didn't even get a good brand," I said, frowning at the carton.

"It didn't matter," she said.

I looked up at her to ask for an explanation, but silenced myself. Her eyes confirmed what I had suspected. She hadn't started smoking for the sake of smoking. We locked eyes for about a minute, neither one of us blinking, saying things without speaking.

"Well, g'night," I said finally, turning and starting for my room.

Just as I entered the hallway, I heard her soft voice behind me. "'Night, Chris."

I almost turned around and said something, but I didn't really know what to say. I just shrugged and continued down the short hallway to my bedroom. I closed the door and slumped onto my bed.

Back in the living room, I heard Claire shuffling around with my incredibly elegant storage solution for my VHS collection: a worn cardboard box, the same one I'd used to move them in with. After a couple minutes I heard the muffled sounds of plastic clattering against plastic and shortly after that, the springs on my couch-bed as the movie began to play. I heard her curse and get up, grumbling something about having no patience for previews. It took her a couple minutes before I finally heard her say, "_There's_ the remote!"

I lay awake for a little while, staring at the ceiling and listening to the movie. I began processing everything Claire had told me. I felt terrible, having left her alone when she had felt so vulnerable. Granted, I had no idea how much emotional weight she'd been carrying. There was no way I could've known. She had been suffering at home while I was suffering overseas. She had needed me and I wasn't there for her. She had a damn good reason to be mad, and I didn't blame her at all.

Still, the…intensity of it all surprised me. She had always sounded cheerful in her letters. Why had she kept this from me for so long?

_Because she was scared,_ I heard my internal voice say. _Just like you procrastinated for a year after you graduated, she was waiting for the right time to tell you, and it just never came._ _Poor girl. She's been through so much already, so much…_

Yet even as these thoughts ran through my head, I found myself once again amazed by her strength. She hadn't really _hated_ me. She felt like she did, but she didn't. What I had seen that night was pure emotion made into words. She wasn't exaggerating, however; I could tell that it really had been as tough on her as she'd made it out to be, if not worse. Yet despite everything, she'd held on, she hadn't given up, and she'd had the strength to forgive me and even take care of me the night before, when I had passed out in a drunken daze on the floor of my apartment.

"_Wayne's World! Wayne's World! Party time! Excellent!"_

The combined voices of Mike Meyers and Dana Carvey and an electric guitar riff reached my ears, muffled through the walls. Wayne's World. One of our mutual favorite movies. It had come out the same year our parents died, but a few months before. We both instantly declared it a classic, claiming in our youthful, sarcastic exuberance that it trumped every other movie ever made.

I smiled as I folded my hands behind my head and listened to the movie. I wanted to watch it with her, but I knew that going back to the living room would just encourage her to stay up for the whole thing.

"_Garth! You're in a forest with Heather Locklear."_

"_With Heather?"_

_"And you're very warm. You're very…warm…"_

I chuckled and likewise heard Claire giggle at the movie. It was exactly what we both needed…some kind of reminder of how our lives used to be. The happy, goofy times that we took for granted because the worst things we had known about life were homework and the stomach flu.

"_I think we'll go with a little 'Bohemian Rhapsody', gentlemen!"_

_"Good call!"_

Ah, Queen. Yet another specific of life's pleasures that Claire and I shared. I had listened to them prominently during my high school years, when I was generally listening to bands like Motley Crue and Led Zeppelin. The fact that I picked up on this band that was, in every sense of the phrase, "un-metal", confounded my sister into taking a listen for herself. She was hooked instantly.

"…_I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me…He's just a poor boy, from a poor family…"_

Claire had begun softly singing along with the actors on the screen. She clearly wasn't aware that voices carry far when you live in an apartment mostly fitted with hardwood floors. None the less, I enjoyed hearing her sing, and I enjoyed the music. It seemed like she turned the volume up at one point, her voice growing louder and louder as she lost herself to the music. I laughed audibly as I imagined what she probably looked like now, standing in front of the TV, banging her head and air-drumming, her ponytail flopping up and down, her eyes closed and her face scrunched up, all the while mouthing the words:

_"So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye…so you think you can love me and leave me to dieee…ohhhhh baby…can't do this to me baby…just gotta get out…just gotta get right out of here…"_

We were enjoying the same movie, though she didn't know it, because I was in another room. We felt the same way, though we were physically separate from each other. This time, though, our mutual feelings were of happiness.

_Maybe this is a sign,_ I thought to myself. _We're together again, we've finally gotten the worst of it sorted out. Maybe things will only get better from here._

As I drifted off to sleep, I heard the soft, melodic voice of Freddy Mercury, twinged with that of my sister as the final lyrics of the song were sung.

_"Nothing really matters…"_

My eyes closed and I felt myself fall into the most peaceful sleep I'd known in years.

"_Nothing really matters…to meeeeee…"_

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I can honestly say that this was the hardest chapter to write yet. I'd literally get these three-day-long periods of EPIC writers block, only to come back and write about three sentences, then just avoid my computer for another week. Thank god for bursts of inspiration!

From here on out, it's going to focus more on Chris' early career as a S.T.A.R.S. operative than on the demise of his parents and his relationship with Claire. She'll still be a big part of it, but as far as the subject matter is concerned, it'll start getting more action-y.

Also, thanks to mein reviewers:

Carmel Bigface

Divine Arion

yamiishot


	5. Chapter 5: Made In Heaven

**Chapter 5: Made In Heaven**

Things started getting a lot better after that. Claire started coming to my place in her free time when she wasn't hanging out with friends. I got a job- a quick, pointless little Joe job at a convenience store to keep me busy and bring in a little extra cash.

At first I felt unsettled. I had everything the way I wanted it, finally, and still I hadn't really started anything real. Besides helping Claire get back into her right mind after my two-year absence, I still wasn't really getting anything done. Even so, it's not like I was being lazy. Not this time. It's just that I couldn't really do anything at all until I got a call from the agency.

By day I worked at the convenience store. I would get about ten or fifteen customers a day, if that. Most of the time I sat around and watched TV, listened to the radio, or read the newspaper or a magazine while I munched on a bag of chips or whatever else I felt inclined to snatch off the shelves. Looking back, I suppose it wasn't really a bad time. It was the first time in my life I felt no pressure, like I could goof off consequence-free. And since I was one of three clerks that alternated days, I had plenty of "me" time and a good share of the store's miniscule profits.

One day, I woke up to the smell of bacon and toast coming from the kitchen. Smiling to myself, I threw off the covers and walked out of my bedroom, knowing full well who I would find there.

Claire had her back to me. The TV was on; she was listening to the Cartoon channel while she was cooking. After all these years, she still hadn't lost her taste for Bugs Bunny and Scooby Doo.

I tried to sneak up on her, but she heard the floorboards squeak.

"Good morni-" she said, cutting herself off when she realized that I was wearing nothing but my boxers. That's also when I realized it.

"Sorry. Be right back."

She laughed and resumed cooking. I put on some jeans and a T-shirt and flopped down on the couch.

"Still as bright as ever, I see," she quipped from the kitchen area.

"You know I'm not a morning person. And neither are you."

"Well, it's good to know that age hasn't changed you _too_ much…yet," she said. "Want some moo juice?"

"Please," I said.

She came over to me with a plate containing an absolute mountain of bacon and a tall glass of milk.

"Ooh," I said, greedily reaching for a handful. "Thanks, sis."

She went back to the kitchen and returned with another glass of milk and a carton of OJ.

"So what's the occasion," I said, swallowing a mouthful of bacon.

She looked at me like I had something growing out of my head.

"You're serious?" she said.

I nodded. "Yeah."

She rolled her eyes and sat up. I watched her as she walked over to the wall and grabbed the calendar. She walked it back over to me and pointed to March 25th, where I had written the word, "Birthday" in black ball-point pen.

"Oh yeah!" I said. "It's my birthday today."

My smile was returned by Claire. As she went to put it back on the wall, she remarked, "maybe I spoke too soon."

"Come on, that's not fair. I'm a busy guy these days," I said, laughing.

"Yeah, I suppose spending hours sitting on your butt at a convenience store _is_ a pretty demanding job," she smirked.

"Hey, it's not so simple," I said. "Sometimes people actually come in. Then you have to say 'hi' to them, ring up their purchase, _and_say good-bye. Honestly, I don't know how I do it."

"Poor Christopher," Claire said, shaking her head.

"Yeah, poor me," I said. She hit me on the head with a pillow.

"So what do you wanna do today?" she said.

"Oh, you know. I was thinking I'd go to a strip club, do some coke, then hire a couple prostitutes…"

"No, seriously," she said. "Anything you want."

I rolled my shoulders. "I dunno, Claire. For now, just sit my fat ass on the couch and eat bacon."

"Sounds good to me," she said, reaching for the plate.

We spent the rest of the morning sitting on the couch watching TV, laughing and eating junk food like a couple of kids. At one point the shows took a commercial break and Claire sat up.

"Be right back," she said.

"Where you going," I said.

She turned and smiled. "You'll see in a minute," she said.

She came back with a heavy generic shopping bag.

"Happy birthday Chris!" she said, extending it to me.

"Nice!" I said, grinning. I reached into the bag and pulled out a clothing box with a sticker bow on top. I pulled it off the box and put it on Claire's head. Whatever it was, it was heavy for something that fit in a sixteen-by-twenty-six cardboard box.

My eyes got wide when I removed the tissue paper. It was a brown leather jacket. A nice one, too.

"Woah, Claire," I exclaimed.

"Check out the back of it," she said, visibly struggling to contain her excitement.

Sewn onto the back was an emblem of an angel holding a bomb. Underneath it were the words, "Made in Heaven", the name of one of my favorite Queen songs.

"Claire, this…this is awesome!" I said, marveling at my gift. It couldn't have been bought commercially. It had to have been custom made, and it had to have cost a lot of money.

She threw her arms around my neck and gave me a crippling hug. When she released me, I put it on and walked over to the mirror on my bedroom door. It looked damn good on me. I came back to the living room and winked at her while giving two thumbs-up and going, "eeyyy!"

"Worst Fonz impression I've ever seen," Claire said.

"Yeah I know," I shrugged.

"Plus, they gave me an extra patch like the one on the back," she said, "so I can put it on one of my jackets, too."

"Cool! So we can be like twins!" I said.

"Yeah!" Claire retorted. "Like we're related or something!"

I laughed. "Thanks Claire. I love it."

"I knew you would," she said, a satisfied expression on her rosy face.

"Why don't we see what's playing at the theatre?" I said.

"Yeah, sure," she said. "I'll get my jacket."

"Need money?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm pretty dry at the moment," she said.

"I'll bet," I said, beaming at the sleeves of my jacket.

Outside, it was surprisingly humid for a March day in Chicago. The mounds of snow that had been piled up on the sides of the street were beginning to melt into the sewers. Traffic was as bad as ever, but somehow the weather made up for it. The familiar scents of burning gas and food from nearby restaurants were overlaid by a fresh, pleasant odor of warm moisture, making the air feel like an extremely mild, pleasant sauna.

We had passed by two locked-up intersections on our way to the theatre when I heard a voice that I hadn't heard in a very long time.

"Chris Redfield, is that you?"

I turned to see, standing twenty yards to my left, walking quickly and excitedly towards the two of us, my old girlfriend from high school.

"Isabella?"

"Holy cow! Claire?"

"Izzy, hey!" Claire said, smiling thinly. She had never really liked Isabella that much, but Isabella didn't know that.

"Jeez, you're all grown up now," she said, beaming. By this point, she had caught up to us.

"And you haven't aged a day," I commented. It was true. She looked no older than the last time I'd seen her, about four years ago. Well, maybe a little, but it seemed more like she'd matured than aged.

"Wish I could say the same for you," she said, wrapping her arms around my neck and embracing.

"Yeah, well, it's been an interesting couple of years," I said.

We separated and she offered a hug to Claire. Although she took it politely, the look on her face told me she still wasn't at all comfortable with the woman.

"So whatchya been up to all these years, Redfield?" she said after she released Claire.

"Oh, you know. Taking care of Claire, flying planes, nothing that out of the ordinary."

"Oh yeah? So you did end up joining the air force, huh?" she said.

"Yep," I said.

"Nice! What about now, are you on leave?"

"No, I was relieved a little more than a month ago, actually," I said, for the first time not at all afraid to say it.

"That sucks."

"Eh, it hasn't been all bad," I shrugged. "The AF paid me well, and I've spent the past couple of weeks taking it easy while I wait for the job hunters to get back to me."

"What line of work are you shooting for?" she said.

"Law Enforcement."

"Somehow I always had a feeling you'd end up a cop," she said with her signature dazzling smile. "Kinda ironic, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, well," I said as I smiled a dopey smile.

_Why does this conversation feel so awkward,_ I thought to myself.

"How's school going for you, Claire," she said, turning to my sister.

"Not too badly I guess. I've managed to keep my GPA high enough, but now that Chris is back home I've been getting more and more distracted."

"Trust me sweetie, keep working hard. It pays off when you start looking for a college."

"So Chris's been telling me," she said.

"Speaking of which, are you still at…"

"University of Chicago, yeah," she said. "Majoring in Biochemistry. I'm going for my Master's."

"Ever the science nerd," I grinned.

She rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, you know…"

"So how's that working for you," I asked.

"Believe it or not, I've already got a job offer."

"That's great! Where to?"

"Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. They want me in their research division," she said proudly.

"That's great," I said. "So they sought you out specifically?"

"Apparently they've got people watching universities all over the place. They're always looking for young talent. They try to keep their research dynamic, that is they try to get as many theories and viewpoints as they can so they don't overlook anything or start thinking rigidly."

"So they picked you out of the masses, huh?"

"Yep. It's an incredible opportunity they've given me, Chris. To start working at the level they're putting me into at my age isn't just an honor, it's a favor they're doing me. Even if I leave the company I'll have a great reputation in the field. Plus, the starting salary is insane."

I laughed.

"I'm sure."

"So what are you guys up to," she said.

"Well, I turned twenty three today," I said.

"Oh! Happy birthday!" she said.

"Thanks," I said. "We were actually going to movies."

"That's cool. Well, I don't wanna keep you," she said sweetly.

"Oh, no, it's no trouble, really," I said.

"But maybe we could hang out sometime soon?" she said.

"Yeah, that'd be great," I said. "Could I have your number?"

"Yeah, sure, just lemme write it down."

She opened her purse and produced a pad of paper. She tore off the corner of one of the pages and reached into her bag again, this time for a pen. She scribbled down her number and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said.

"Get back to me when you can," she said, smiling.

"Will do," I said, slipping the paper into my back pocket.

"It was really great seeing you guys again," she said, giving Claire and I an additional hug each.

"Yeah, you too," Claire said unconvincingly. To me, at least.

"See ya," she said, crossing the street and waving. I waved back.

When she turned her head back to the street, my eyes met Claire's.

"Oh god," she groaned.

"Aw, come on," I said, nudging her. "What do you have against her?"

"She's always so…vivacious," Claire said. "Insincere."

"No she's not," I said. "You just think that because she's so much like you."

"No she's not!" she said, laughing a little. "I'm nothing like her."

"Maybe that's why you hate her," I said. "Because you _are_ like her."

"Please," Claire said.

"A _lot_ like her," I said.

"Bull-_shit_."

"It's true."

Claire sighed.

"So what do you wanna see," she said, eager to change the subject.

"I don't know. We'll have to see when we get there."

We settled on "Fargo". It was almost four in the afternoon by the time we left the theatre. As we walked back to my place, we did what everyone does after seeing a really good movie: we critiqued it amongst ourselves. We threw quotes at each other, talked about our favorite scenes, our favorite characters, and what everyone should have done in each situation, because obviously, we would have known better.

"I think what I'm going to remember about this movie was Steve Buschemi being thrown into a wood-chipper," I said.

"For me it'll be their accents," she said. "To think that less than a hundred miles North of here, people tahk like this, ya know."

"Hey, there are people here who tahk like thaht."

"Can't believe that whole thing was based on a true story," she said.

"Yeah. Kinda scary that people with _that_ level of intelligence actually exist."

"What's even more frightening is that they actually pulled off a kidnapping."

I paused.

"Yeah, that is pretty scary."

"And I did _not_ envy that guy's wife," she added. "She was just sitting at home watching TV, and two half-retarded thugs break into her house and kidnap her. She just got thrown into the middle of everything and did absolutely nothing to deserve it. And what makes it worse is that her husband was in on it."

"Yeah."

"I don't ever want to be in that kind of situation," she said, shivering a bit. "Defenseless, hiding from two guys in my own home because I know that I can't fight them off. I'd hate that."

She shrugged and put her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

"I think everyone should have at least _some_means of self-defense. At least know how to shoot a gun."

I nodded and walked along in silence. After a minute, a light bulb turned on in my head. I grabbed Claire's wrist and led her across the street.

"Come on."

"Wha- where are you taking me?" she said, laughing.

"You'll see when we get there."

"At least let go of my arm!"

So I did.

"Seriously, where are we going? Your apartment's the other way."

"I know," I said. "But the shooting range is this way."

"Why are we going to the shooting range?" she said.

"Because, Claire, I'm going to teach you how to shoot a gun."

"Wait…now?" she said. "I didn't mean I wanted to learn how to defend myself _right_ now. I know how to kick a guy in the balls, that much can suffice for a few years."

"Why not now?" I said.

"Well…I don't know. I guess it's okay."

"Then let's go."

I led her to a shooting range I'd gone to a lot after I graduated. I killed a lot of time there, practicing my aim with rented handguns. They offered lessons, but I preferred simple habitual practice.

We entered the building to the bitter smell of gunpowder and the muffled _cracks_ of gunfire. A heavyset man in aviator sunglasses pushed past us as we made our way to the reception desk. We rented two handguns and sixty rounds each and took two empty booths at the far end of the range.

"Okay, this round is over, so we have a minute or two to go over safety," I said.

"Basically don't point it at anyone while it's loaded, right?"

"Yeah. In fact, don't point it at anyone at all, even if it isn't loaded. The safety is here; you'll have to release it before you can fire. Once you hear a beep, you have roughly ten seconds to get your ear protection on before people start firing. Before you even think about taking aim, you have to put on your eyes, too."

"Put on my eyes?" she said.

"You know what I mean. Your eye protection. Your goggles. You may need a few times to get used to the recoil, so the kickback might cause the gun to fly back and hit you in the eye."

"Ooh."

"Yeah. So once you're ready to shoot, you're gonna have to cock it. With some handguns you can just pull this top part back, but for most of them you'll need to pull the hammer back until it clicks."

"What's the hammer?" she said.

"This part right here." I pointed to the textured appendage near where the barrel met the magazine. "Pull it back until it clicks and locks in place."

"Gotcha," she said.

"Actually, I forgot a step. Before you cock it, you have to load it. You have three spare magazines, not counting the one already in your gun. Each one has fifteen rounds in it. That's bullets, by the way."

"I got it."

"Once you're ready to fire, aim it at your target downrange. You'll figure this out for yourself pretty quickly, but I'll tell you anyway: it's really hard to keep your gun steady. It's heavy, and even the slightest twitch of your wrist can send your shot way off target. Make sure you keep your breathing slow and steady. Here, do this."

I put my right fist on top of my left hand. Claire mimicked me.

"Push your fist down on your palm, and push you palm up against your fist. Don't push one harder than the other, just enough so that you can stabilize your shot. Also, take a look at the sight on the barrel."

I pointed to the metal tabs at the back and front of the barrel of her weapon.

"Line up the sights so that it looks like one solid bar. Whatever is directly on top of that bar is what your gun is going to hit. Once you're satisfied, squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it."

"Okay, I think I got it," she said. "Anything else I should know?"

"Yes," I said. "When your clip is dry, press this. It'll eject the clip. When you put the new one in, make sure the front of the round, the round part, is pointed out. Otherwise the clip won't even fit into the gun."

"That's a lot to remember," Claire said.

"It'll seem like a lot less when you're actually doing it," I shrugged. "After awhile it becomes automatic."

"M'kay."

There was a shrill, electronic "beep" in the firing range.

"Okay, there it is. If you have any more questions just tap me on the shoulder. I'll help you if I can."

Claire put on her eye and ear protection and disappeared into her booth. I put on my own and slammed a new clip into my pistol.

As I began firing, I noticed a few holes appearing in Claire's target downrange. They were really infrequent, and mostly scattered. I continued with my own shooting until my second clip went dry. As I ejected it, I looked back at Claire's target. Her shots were grouping together now, and she was shooting faster.

"Quick learner," I said to myself.

There was another "beep" and a woman's voice instructing all shooters to remove their protective gear and wait for their targets to come downrange. I went into Claire's booth. She was just taking off her ear protection. I tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped.

"Shit!" she laughed. "You scared me!"

"Yeah, shooting will get you a bit jumpy," I said. "So how'd you do?"

As I said this, her target came towards us on an electronic pulley.

"See for yourself," she said.

It wasn't great, but it was really good for her first go.

"Suck-tacular," she said, grinning.

"Actually, you did pretty well, considering."

"Really?" she said.

"Yeah, most of your shots were relatively consistent. I was watching you; you warmed up to the routine faster than I thought you would. I mean, I can't call you a sharpshooter, but you did good for a first-timer."

"Sweet," she said.

"So you wanna go home or keep shooting?"

"It's your birthday, remember?" she said.

"Let's stay for one more round," I said. "I wanna see if how much you improve."

I bought more rounds and we shot for about another half an hour. When it was over, we looked at Claire's target again. Her shots had improved, but only slightly.

"Not much better this time," she frowned.

"I didn't expect you to get good this time around. It takes practice."

"How much do you have to practice before you can do that?" she said, gesturing to my target, the shots on which were grouped into a round, lumpy shape about four or five inches across, centered around the bulls-eye.

"Oh, about two or three times a week for a year or so," I said.

Her eyes got wide.

"And basic military training doesn't hurt, either."

"How could you afford that?"

"Well, I got a license and bought my own gun; that made it a lot less expensive."

"You never told me you have a gun!"

"Yeah, well, it's not something you needed to know," I said.

She shrugged. "I guess."

"We should probably get going," I said. "I'm almost out of cash."

"Got enough to buy me a burger?" she smiled sweetly as she picked up her empty weapon.

"Probably," I said.

My birthday ended quietly. Claire went home after dinner, and I returned home to my apartment.

I hung my new jacket in my closet put my hands in my back pockets. I noticed something in one of them, a slip of paper. That's when I remembered my run-in with Isabella earlier that day.

I took her number out of my pocket and got my contact book out of a drawer. I wrote her number in the "C" section (her last name was Cornell).

_Why__did__that conversation feel so awkward_, I asked myself. I hadn't seen her in years, sure, and our breakup hadn't been necessarily messy. We just acknowledged that our lives were moving in different directions, and neither of us thought that dragging it on would be a good idea.

_Had it not been for that, we'd probably still be together_, I thought.

And now, by chance, we'd run into each other once more. And she'd asked me out.

I didn't think I'd be this excited to see her again. I always thought that, if I ran into her in the future, it'd be casual and friendly, but now that I had, it was different.

I noticed the red light of my answering machine for the first time. I had six messages.

I listened to all of them. Most were just friends wishing me a happy birthday, not the least surprising of whom was Chuck McCarthy. The sixth one, however, was different.

"Mr. Redfield, hey. This is Alan Norther."

My contact at the job agency.

"Just wanted to tell you that I- oh, I see it's your birthday today! Happy birthday, first of all. Second, I found a position you might be interested in. It's uh, it's a law enforcement agency, a special branch independent of regional police. There's some basic training involved, and the guy I talked to today thinks your skill set is perfect for the job. Let's see…the starting salary is excellent for your age and level of experience, and from the looks of it they're getting desperate for new recruits, so it should be easy-to-get job. However, this organization is usually only utilized in dire situations where organized strike teams of experienced soldiers are needed for covert operations or instances considered too risky for normal cops. In other words, it's a dangerous job. However, if you think you'd be interested, just call my contact at…"

I got a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote down the number.

"He's most likely in his office during the day, so I'd try around noon or one. Good luck. Oh, and one more thing: just FYI, the guy's name is Barry Burton."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I have nothing but thanks and apologies for you guys. Thanks, obviously, to my steady readers and those who may have just started reading. Apologies because I really have been trying to get this chapter finished. By that I don't mean that I've been rushing through it; I'm a firm believer in "quality vs. quantity", but I've been playing with this chapter here and there for a few months in between homework and housework and work work. But, thank god, second semester is finally here! Therefore I'll have more time, and that means I'll be more likely to find time for updating chapters (maybe even some of the other things I've been tinkering with).

Thanks especially to:

Mizz Deathbat

Divine Arion

Madeline Black

Ruby Halo

Chaed

Yamiishot

Raidenlover6


	6. Chapter 6: The Bear and the Buck

**Chapter 6: The Bear and the Buck**

I called him the next day. He seemed like an okay guy; polite, friendly, had a sense of humor. Reminded me a little of Chuck. He had a slightly northern accent. I asked him about it, and he told me he'd been raised in the UP, practically on the border between Canada and the States. Our conversation didn't go too in-depth; he wanted to save that stuff for the meeting.

I asked for the address of the place he wanted to meet. He gave me a specific parking lot on the outskirts of the forest preserve. He asked me if I had any hunting gear.

"No," I said.

"Eh, that's okay," he replied. "I got some spare stuff you can use."

Gas prices being what they were back then (I guess they haven't gotten much better, come to think of it), I usually stuck to riding the bus or walking when I needed to get somewhere. The buses didn't run to the parking lot, so I took my Buick.

I pulled into the parking lot. There were only two vehicles in the lot. There was a light blue panel van painted with a decal of a fist giving the middle finger over the right door. There was also a red Dodge Ram with Yosemite Sam mud flaps closer to where I pulled in, the bed filled with coolers and military-issue footlockers. Leaning against the driver's side door was an enormous man in full camo with a bright orange baseball cap, cradling a scoped Remington in one arm and holding a can of Old Style in the other.

He took notice as soon as I pulled in. He turned and gave me a wide grin. He waved, and I parked two spaces next to him.

He went around his truck and greeted me.

"Hey there," he said with a hardy Yooper accent. "Chris Redfield?"

"That's me," I said.

He smiled even wider than before and extended his hand. "Barry Burton."

Up close, the guy looked more like a Northern Grizzly than a man, just with slightly less hair. 'Scruffy' was a good word for him. He had a beard that covered about one third of his face. Another third was taken up by the hair on the top of his head, combed back and cut short. He looked old enough that he may have been going bald. Not that I could tell for sure with the baseball cap. The words "Bucks Before Doe's" were printed in bold green stitching.

He damn near crushed my hand when I shook it.

"Nice hat," I said.

"My wife got it for me. She thinks it's hilarious."

"I don't get it," I said.

"Eh, you know the difference between a buck and a doe, right?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. So it's like, 'bros before ho's', you know."

"Oh," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "I didn't marry her for her sense of humor."

I laughed.

"Anyway, you're probably wondering why we're meeting here instead of at the office or at a restaurant somewhere. Well, tell you the truth, the only time I'm ever really comfortable is when I'm either outdoors or got some kind a firearm in my hand. So, I figure while I'm interviewing new recruits, may as well have a little fun. Plus this way I get to see how good of a shot you are, if at all."

He spoke as he walked me over to his truck and began unloading the bed.

"You ever been hunting before?" he asked me.

"No," I said.

He slid one of the footlockers out of the truck. I was surprised how easily he was able to lift the thing. Empty, one of those are usually around fifty pounds. The one he lifted out of his truck had stuff spilling out of it.

"That's the easy part," he said, grunting as he set the footlocker down. "That one's got the extra clothing and stuff in it. Gimme a hand with this next one."

I climbed into the bed and pushed the footlocker toward Barry while he gripped the handle at the opposite end and pulled. The thing didn't feel like it was a hollow, more like a solid block of metal.

"What the hell's in this thing?"

"Spare weapons and parts."

It fell out of the truck and _clunked_ onto the top of the other footlocker.

"And ammo."

Despite the weight of it, it only scratched the door and hardly dented it at all.

"Don't worry about that," Barry said. "Bought 'em for their durability, as you can see."

It landed on its side. Barry kicked it over with his boot and went back to the driver's side of the truck.

"Open up the one with all the clothes in it. See what fits."

I lifted the door of the "lighter" footlocker up. Pasted on the inside of the door were multiple pictures of the same beautiful woman. In some pictures she was dressed in hunting or military apparel, in others she held firearms, and in others she was nude, covering herself with belt-fed machine guns or lying on rugs made of deer and bearskin.

"You'll notice the pin-ups," he said as he came back with a huge ring of worn copper keys. He pointed to the pictures with another big grin. "My wife before she was my wife."

He snatched the jacket I'd picked up out of my hands.

"Nah, I know that one won't fit you. Belongs to my daughter. Coulda sworn I took this one out before I came here…"

He shrugged and tore through the locker in about a minute while picking out specific pieces and letting them drop onto the asphalt.

"There ya go," he said, closing the footlocker and slapping his hands together. "Put those on."

A US army infantry jacket, black body warmer, camo pants, fingerless gloves, and a bright orange baseball hat that had the Miller logo stitched into it.

"So I know you went through Basic," he said, rifling through the key ring. "Know your way around a rifle?"

"I've had more practice with handguns, but yeah," I said.

"Okie-dokie," Barry said, singling out a long, shiny gold key. "I'll trust you with the thirty-odd six."

He handed me the rifle, unloaded with the bolt open. I grabbed it by the wood stock and lightly tossed it up and down in my hands until I was familiar with the weight. The scope was old, but in perfect working condition, the lens polished to a mirror shine. When I looked through the scope, I could see the faintest reflection of my own eye looking back at itself.

"She's a great ol' girl, but sometimes she can be a bitch," Barry said, kneeling down and picking rounds from the compartments that neatly separated each type. "If that happens, just give her a good smack. She'll start cooperating again. Now, help me spread this tarp out. We're gonna need a few rocks on it, too. So's the wind doesn't blow it away while we're out."

I felt like I should've said something, but I had a funny feeling about the guy. He was as big as a moose and probably as strong as one. He drove a pickup truck and worked in law enforcement, and went hunting in his spare time. Despite all that, I didn't think he'd be capable of hurting anyone that didn't seriously need it. He just had an aura about him, an energy he emanated that told me he was just a good guy with a sense of humor a lot of people just didn't get, or maybe were just slow to warm up to it.

"Here's all the ammo you'll need." He had his hands cupped, cradling about two dozen rounds. I put most of them in the pocket of the vest and loaded five into the chamber. "Want a beer, tiny?"

"Yeah," I said.

He climbed into the bed. "What flavor? Bud or Old Style?"

"Old Style," I said, loading the third round.

"I like your style," Barry said. He reached into the cooler and produced a silver and blue can. "Fire in the hole!"

He tossed it without giving a second warning. I just barely caught it, but I dropped a few rounds.

"Thanks."

"Reaction time could use a little work," Barry said.

"I'm a bit out of practice. Haven't been down to the range much in the past few months."

"Ah, it's alright. Just don't tell the boss I've been drinking on the job and we'll be alright."

"That's assuming I've already got the job."

"Well, either way, I don't think he'll mind." He hopped down from the bed, the loose mass of his gear shaking from the impact while his legs didn't even jiggle. He grabbed the barrel of his rifle with two fingers and tossed it up, then snatched it in midair with his other hand, finger around the trigger. He released the safety and cocked it. "Let's go get in touch with Mother Nature."

It was twenty minutes into the hunt that I realized something.

"I don't have a hunting license."

"What?"

"Yeah, sorry. I guess I kinda…forgot…that you need a license to do this sort of thing."

"Hell, all you need to hunt is a rifle, some ammo and a little patience," Barry said. "All a license is good for is gettin' you outta trouble if you do something stupid. So just don't do anything stupid, and we'll both be like two little Fonzies."

"Cool?"

Barry chuckled. It was the first time I'd ever heard him laugh, and it made me laugh, too. I love people that can do that; they have laughs that are so goofy or make you so comfortable that you can't help but laugh with them. That was Barry.

"We're on the same page, right? 'Pulp Fiction'?"

"Yeah," I said, laughing.

"God, I love that movie." He shook his head as he spoke.

He raised his hand up.

"Hoo!"

I froze.

He motioned for me to go to the ground.

I did.

"Check that papa out," Barry said in the subtlest whisper.

He slowly pointed about seventy yards ahead. It was a deer, a big one with big antlers and a shaggy gray coat. He was limping, slowly, westward, just crossing our path.

Barry moved the scope to his eye.

"Fuck. I thought so. Take a look at his left hind leg."

I scoped out the animal exactly as Barry had told me. He didn't have much of a leg at all. It was more like a bloody stump with stringy sinew and muscle trailing off the end. Clotted blood mingled with dirt and leaves to form a nasty brownish patch over most of the wound. There were a few deep scratches up his leg and over his haunch.

"Sucker just got attacked. Probably bunch a wolves, coyotes. How he got away with that leg, though…"

Barry slung his rifle.

"Okie-dokie, Chris, here's your first test: marksmanship. You take the shot on that poor animal. I don't care whether you get its heart or head, just put it out of its misery. If we don't, he'll get taken down by predators or die of infection in less than a day."

I sighted on the buck. I looked back at Barry.

"Don't worry, he's had a full life. He's an old boy, like me."

"No, what about the predators?"

"They won't bother him long as we're here. They probably gave up on him twenty minutes ago, soon as they caught our scent. The wind's blowin' thataway." He motioned from behind us to the deer. "No way in hell they didn't know about us the second we set foot into these woods."

I took aim again. I'd have a clear shot for at least a few more minutes.

"Where's the heart," I hissed.

"Just aim for the head," he hissed back.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I opened them.

Slowly, very slowly, I released my breath.

Everything slowed down.

I could hear every single leaf in the trees around us rustle in the wind.

I could smell the beer on Barry's breath.

I even heard the buck. He grunted with every step on his gimped leg.

Slowly…

Squeezed…

Fired.

The sound echoed back from what was probably miles away, again and again, fainter each time.

The buck's knees gave and he fell in an instant. There were no cries, no further movements. It was dead before it had felt a thing.

Barry exhaled for a year and a half. He patted my shoulder. Without another word, he stood up. I followed him.

When we got to what had formerly been the wounded buck, its limp body looked far less peaceful. Before I'd gotten ten feet away from it, I had smelled its rotting flesh. It was strong, gamy, as I expected, but rotten and bitter, slightly metallic. I never forgot that smell.

"Good Jesus-Christ-Mary and motherfucking Joseph," Barry said. "This poor bastard musta dragged that leg for hours."

"Well, he's dead now," I said, covering my mouth. I had crouched beside it without realizing it.

"I'll say," Barry said. "Not sure there's much brain left in there."

There was a hole you could put a golf ball through between his left eye and left ear. It went all the way in and all the way out. Barry was right; when I looked through it, I saw leaves on the forest floor. Most of that was splattered across the ground next to it in a neat little fan shape.

"Alright, help me lift this sucker," Barry said. "Lemme get the hind legs. I have gloves on."

We were about three miles from the truck. I held the front legs while Barry held the fetid gimped one and his brother. We had to flip the carcass over and as we moved, the head lolled back and forth, the antlers occasionally hitting my legs.

"Wait-"

I barely dropped the carcass before everything I'd eaten in the past twelve hours went back up my throat and poured, hot and heavy, onto the forest floor. Some of it hit the corpse. I felt bad about that later on. As I spat out what was left in my mouth, I felt Barry's massive claw of a gloved hand pat my back. It seemed incongruous how light the pat was when the arms that supplied it had biceps the size of grapefruits.

"Never killed anything before, have ya?" he said.

"Not up close," I said. "Just from the air."

"Uh-huh," Barry said. "That happens to a lot of people first time they kill something bigger than a rabbit. Didn't happen to me, but you know. I killed my first buck before I learned to ride a bike."

"I'm okay now," I said.

"Sure?" Barry said.

"Oh yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

I went over to the carcass and grabbed hold of the front legs. Barry took the back again.

"You need to hurl again, lemme know before-"

I felt another warm, stinging surge of bile begin to force its way up my throat. I swallowed it back down. The thing's leg smelled like a dumpster behind a slaughterhouse.

"I'm good," I barely said.

Barry grunted in acknowledgement.

"So tell me a bit about yourself, Chris," Barry said. "What made you decide to come down and hunt with me today?"

"Some prick named Bromley," I said. "Ex-Lieutenant Bromley."

"Yeah?" Barry said.

"I don't wanna get into the gory details, but to make a long story a short story, he did something stupid and got both of us kicked out of the AF. He took most of the blame, though."

"Being that this is still a job interview, I'm gonna have to insist you go into the gory details," Barry said. "So's I know what you did, so's I know if I can trust you in the field."

"Well, he made a tactical error. He shouldn't have sent planes in to do a job, but he did anyway. He chose me and my squad. Lost two good planes, two great guys. Friends of mine, both of them. One from high school. I had the guys we were supposed to protect in my sights. There was a line of hostiles moving in on 'em. They were…they never woulda made it. Bromley tells me to return to base, but we'd already lost a guy and were about to lose two more on the ground. I didn't want his death to go to waste. See, you can understand that, right?"

"Of course," Barry said.

"Right! So I tell everyone to form on me and keep the bastards off 'em long enough for the chopper to pick them up. And…another guy gets shot down. Straight down. Guy's plane went up right in front of me."

"Fuck."

"You wanna know something? Something weird I thought about it later, and I mean, like, much later on?"

"What?"

I paused and took a breath. "I was more freaked out about the fact that I didn't see his plane coming than I was that he'd been shot down at all. I mean, I don't know how he got so far above me or ahead of me- probably just trying to dodge the missiles. But, I mean, he went straight _down_, almost on top of me. And if he'd actually come down on top of me, I wouldn't be talking to you right now."

"Sounds only natural."

"You don't think that's even a little fucked?" I said.

"No," Barry said. "Know what I think?"

"What?" I said.

"I think you should be glad that you were more afraid of his plane hitting you than you were about him. See, Chris, we're in the business o' killin' folks, no matter how you try 'n dress it up. We ain't cops, we ain't soldiers, we ain't air force pilots; we're killers. That's just what we do. And the reason people like us do jobs like this is because this is the best job we're best suited for. I'll give ya an example. Would you trust a chef at an Italian restaurant to fix your car?"

"No," I said.

"Would you trust a football player who flunked outta high school to teach math to college kids?"

"No," I said.

"Well then," Barry said. "say there's a killer on the loose, a guy who's born to kill but doesn't recognize who needs to be killed and who shouldn't be killed. Basically, a psychopath. Now who would you rather have watching your ass: a guy who knows how to kill, and knows who to kill, or a tour guide at fabulous Universal Studios, Florida?"

I smiled. "I think I get what you're saying."

"My point is, Chris, everyone's got a little bit of everything in 'em. Everyone's a little bit of a psychopath, everyone's a little bit of a queer, everyone's a little bit of a intellectual, but specific people are especially good at certain things. You and me? We know how to kill shit. See that hole in this guy's head? You hit it in just the right place he'd go down quickly and feel no pain. You gotta know how to kill to do something like that as well as you did. No squirrely office worker could replace ya, kid. You and me, we handle guns like birds fly. In other words, you're a born killer."

"I wouldn't put it that way," I said.

"Why not?" Barry said.

"When you say 'killer', you think Freddy, Jason, Leatherface, Hannibal fuckin' Lecter. You don't think 'cop'. Killers kill people because they like to, or feel like they need to. Cops kill people as a last resort to protect people."

"But what allows 'em to do that, Redfield?"

"They know they have to. They know there's no other way."

Barry chuckled. "Alright, Mr. semantics. Let's try this: you got a girlfriend?"

"No," I said.

"Okay, let's say your parents are being held at gunpoint."

"The guy'd have to dig them up out of the ground, and even then I don't think they'd care much if someone shot them."

"My bad," Barry said. "Siblings?"

"Sister," I said.

"Perfect," Barry said. "Let's say a guy's got your sister at gunpoint. Says he's gonna rape her and kill her unless you do something for him that's more fun to watch."

"Okay," I said.

"So he tells you to saw your own leg off."

"Okay."

"I'll assume you wouldn't normally enjoy doing something like that to yourself. But would you do it for your sister's sake?"

"Yes," I said.

"Why the sudden change of heart?"

"If I do it to save my sister's life, it's for a good cause."

"A good cause?"

"Yeah," I said. "Makes it worth doing."

"And what precisely makes it worth doing all of a sudden?"

"Knowing she'll be safe."

"And that's a pleasant thought, ain't it?" Barry said.

"Well, sure, but it doesn't make me enjoy sawing my fucking leg off with a goddamn hacksaw."

"But you're able to tolerate it by focusing on the reward: the pleasure of knowing your sister is safe. And the thing you gave up was relatively small compared to what you preserved."

"Yeah, but it's still a fucking leg."

"Aw, fuck the leg. They got prosthetic legs that work just fine. But they don't sell prosthetic sisters, do they?"

"Maybe in Japan," I said.

"Nobody ever does nothin' without pleasure somehow bein' involved," he said. "So that means when you kill something, you enjoy it. And it don't matter why you find pleasure in something, it's still pleasure. So, in a way, bein' that you're a killer, you're already a FreddyJasonLeatherfaceLecter. A killer's a killer. You just don't enjoy killin' for the same reasons they do. You enjoy it because the people you've killed were trying to kill people who didn't deserve to be killed. You were protecting innocent people."

"Never thought about it like that."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. People like us, we're a necessity. We do a job nobody else can do. Anyone can be trained to be a cop or a soldier, but you can't have a cop or soldier that's incapable of taking a life when the situation calls for it. Those situations, you can't afford to risk it."

"That's true."

"And it's important to be good at what you do. Especially if screwing up means your life. So you shouldn't freak out about caring more about your safety than that of a guy who was already dead."

"I guess that makes sense."

"So that story you told me about how you went against your commanding officer," Barry said.

"Yeah," I said, feeling my heart drop.

_Shit, shit, shit…_

"That took balls," Barry said. "Probably woulda done the same thing in your shoes, but it took balls."

"Thanks," I said, relieved.

"Anyways," Barry said, wiping his brow, "I think that's all I needed in the way of an interview."

"Really?" I said.

"Yeah," Barry said, hoisting the carcass onto the tarp we'd set up earlier. "Not much blood left in this guy's skull. Probably didn't even need the tarp."

He put his hands on his hips and let out a big sigh.

"Well," he said. "Let me be the first to say, welcome aboard."

"So I get the job just like that?"

"No, not _just_ like that," he said. "You got the job for a reason. You're a decorated ex-military guy with some real talent with a firearm. Your second and final test started just after you took out Gimpy. I just needed to see what type a man you are. Plus," he took off his hat and scratched the back of his neck, "the other guys I interviewed were barely cut out for the regular police force, let alone the S.T.A.R.S. Would you believe me if I told you one of them actually told me he was a pacifist?"

"That's funny," I said.

"Yeah, well, I'll tell you something a whole lot funnier: we hired the squirrelly fucker."

"Why?"

"Wasn't my decision. Captain saw somethin' in him. I think he said he was supposed to be like a radio operator prodigy or some other bullshit. Don't get me wrong, he's a nice guy and all. He just didn't pass any of my tests."

I nodded.

"Well, let's get this guy in the bed. Probably need to take damn near the whole leg off to keep the rot from spreading."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Sorry once again, guys. Another one of those chapters that kinda just fell to the bottom of the pile for a few months. Actually, I see it's been about a year since I added a chapter to this particular story. Then again, I did publish a standalone story about Leon and Claire getting wasted a few months ago. So, you know. Go read that. It's good.

Aaaaaanyway, interesting story about this chapter. I wrote probably more than half of it in November, when I was sick with the ol' H1N1. Yeah. Remember that whole craze? It was cool, because I had to go into quarantine, so they basically just gave me a single dorm room while still charging me for a double for about a week. And since the fatigue I experienced put me into an adamant state of "cannot be arsed," I just put off doing school work of any kind for the duration. It was just me, my laptop, some movies, and a couple computer games for about a week. So, I decided it'd be a great idea to get a little "fanfiction-ing" done while I was there. I finished this particular chapter off a couple days ago while working run crew at my school's production of "Streetcar Named Desire", or as I call it, "Domestic Violence: The Stage Adaptation."

So that happened. I've also gotten back into Anime a bit. But just a bit. Like when I say "got back into," I mean "started reading my neighbor's 'Hellsing' mangas." Not a story with the most depth, but undoubtedly original and perpetually exciting to read. If you haven't been exposed yet, let me say something to convince you: "MOTHERFUCKING VAMPIRE NAZIS." I'm serious. Hellsing kicks so much ass I'm surprised I'm still able to sit down.

Basically we're getting closer and closer to the part of this story that inspired me to write this whole thing in the first place. I can't promise that I'll start updating more often (I think we both know that's not going to happen) what with all that "college" and "full time job" business my crazy ass has gotten into lately. Just keep watching for updates. Oh- and three guesses who the Captain and the squirrelly motherfucker are.


	7. Chapter 7: Rommel's

**Chapter 7: "Rommel's"**

So at this point, I had the job. Barry was satisfied, and the Captain seemed to trust his judgment. He just wanted to get the chance to meet me in person at least once before I visited the home office, which we were to discuss. Barry never told me the guy's name; he always referred to him simply as "the Captain." Apparently the two went way back, which is how he got an easy in to become a part of the team.

We met up at a high-end barbecue joint called called "Rommel's" near Milwaukee Avenue. I'd been there a couple times before. Before the meeting was set up, Barry asked me why I'd suggested for the meeting place where I'd see my new boss face-to-face for the first time to be at a restaurant named after a famous Nazi military strategist. I told him it was because their barbecue ribs were better than sex.

Barry and I met at the door ten minutes early. We decided to go in and wait for the Captain. Inside, it was dark and dense. Booths lined the walls and there were no windows or walls anywhere within the main lounge. Everything was swimming in a warm, reddish glow. It kinda felt like being inside a WWII-era bunker, but classier, and with a well-stocked bar in the middle of it. On the left wall from the front entrance, there was an old photo of General George S. Patton. Facing him on the far right wall was a photo of General Erwin Rommel.

There he was: the Captain, sitting in a booth near the far right wall, alone, with a cup of black coffee. Barry pointed him out to me. Whatever I expected, he wasn't it. He was a fit, gaunt guy in his mid-thirties with a long, serious face, slicked back blonde hair, an all-black suit, and a pair of sunglasses. I remember the first thing I thought when I saw him: "he looks like a German hitman."

I walked up to him with Barry.

"Oh Captain, my Captain," he said. "Afternoon."

"Hello, Barry."

He had some kind of high British accent and a voice like a computer, both soothing and unsettling at the same time.

"This here's our newest recruit, Chris Redfield," Barry said. "Chris, may I present to you our dear Captain, Albert Wesker."

The Captain put down his coffee and stood up to greet me.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Chris."

"Likewise, sir," I said.

"You're not on the clock yet, Chris," he said. "No need for the 'sir', unless it pleases you somehow."

"That's very kind of you."

"We're putting together a band, Chris, not a solo concert with backup singers. Such formalities aren't really my cup of coffee."

We took our seats.

"Barry tells me you're quite the crack shot," Wesker said, stirring the coffee with a spoon.

"Well, I've had a lot of practice. I go down to the shooting range at least once a week."

"Fantastic," he said. "We've been combing the country for a marksman fit to join Alpha team for months now. You're the only one we've interviewed in the area this month who knows which end of the gun the bullets come out of."

Barry nodded. "It's been a bit of a dry season in terms of interviews lately."

"None the less," Wesker continued, "you're also the best we found willing to take the job." He paused. "Has Barry filled you in on…why the S.T.A.R.S. are needed in Raccoon City?"

I looked at Barry. "Uh…no, not specifically why."

"Well, I'll be as succinct as I can: the crime rate in Raccoon is abominable. The regular police force is overworked and understaffed; the SWAT is working thrice as often as they should need to. People on all sides are becoming impatient with local law enforcement and frankly, a lot of them are beginning to lose faith. This creates more crime as respect for the law is diminished. So you see, Raccoon is currently stuck in a rather vicious downward spiral." He stopped and took a sip of coffee. "In fact, because of the crime rate, the very infrastructure is beginning to crack. Last year a hospital in the mountains had to be closed and condemned because so much money is being put into fighting crime, there's not much left over for anything else."

"It's true," Barry said. "I've seen it myself. Can't hardly walk the streets alone at night without the risk of bein' mugged. Almost got jumped by these six teens out of a back alley last time I was there. Only reason they backed off was because I told 'em I was a cop. Well, you know. That and I flashed my gun."

"Basically, we're trying to avoid Raccoon going under martial law," Wesker said.

"What would we do?" I said.

"Everything else," Wesker said.

"What do you mean?"

"Petty crime, traffic issues, homicides and armed robbery can be handled by the regular force. Terrorists and other heavily-armed offenders can be dealt with by SWAT. Our purpose would be to pick up the slack. Everything that the RPD and SWAT can't handle, it's our job to take care of. Think of us as the RPD's secret weapon, their trump card."

"What's the difference between us and SWAT, or any of the other boys in blue? Are we like a reserves force?"

"Certainly not," Wesker said. "The S.T.A.R.S. Raccoon City branch is made entirely of veterans and experts renowned in their respective fields, each assigned to the team based on his or her specialty. Yours would, obviously, be marksmanship. I suppose in a pinch you could also serve as a backup pilot. Don't misunderstand, we have-"

He stopped talking. He took off his sunglasses so he could make eye contact with Barry and me. He nodded his head towards the bar. Barry and I both looked. Two guys had just walked in. The one that lead the other was a hawkish, lanky dude wearing a well-fitted suit and a black overcoat with leather gloves. The guy that followed him in was bald and had a huge, white beard and a bright orange traffic vest outside of a blue body warmer. His face looked like someone had sculpted it out of silly putty, then stretched it way out horizontally. They kept close to each other. The one that looked like a business exec was glancing around every half a second. He was dripping with sweat, though it could have been the overcoat. I think it was around eighty-five degrees out that day.

Wesker took a notepad out of his jacket pocket, along with a fancy fountain pen. He wrote something on the pad and then pushed it toward us on the table.

"_2 perps_

_1 has shotgun in jacket_

_Other one probably a handgun_"

I pointed to the pen and motioned for him to hand it to me. He did.

"_How can you tell?_" I wrote. I gave it back to him. He returned with two words:

"_Body language_". He wrote something else: "_Are you armed?_"

Barry nodded. I shook my head.

He wrote another message. "_Chris, hand-to-hand?_"

I nodded.

The guy in the suit (clearly the more excitable of the two) yanked something out of his overcoat. It got stuck, so it took him a couple tries, but eventually he got it out and started fanning it around the room like one of the Village People doing that pointing move from the "YMCA" dance.

"GET DOWN! GET DOWN YOU FAGGOTS! GET DOWN!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, but because of the size of the restaurant, it took a few seconds for everyone to realize what was going on. When they finally did, they went down like a Vegas whore whose life depended on it.

His partner pulled an H&K 9 millimeter from his body warmer and likewise fanned it around the room. "Everyone calm down now. We're just here on professional business." He opened his body warmer and produced a MAC-10 machine pistol and an extended clip. He jammed the clip into the MAC-10. "Whether you like it or not, you here are our clients this afternoon. Now, I don't wanna kill nobody, but if I see anyone movin' faster than a good, docile hostage should, I'm gonna have to assume you're makin' a run for it, or maybe you just think you're some kind of Charlie Bronson type, and are reaching for a weapon of some kind. This is my rule number one. What's my rule number one, my dear brother?"

"Rule number one states, 'if we think you're trying to pull a Charlie Bronson, we put you down, no questions asked,'" the guy in the overcoat said.

"A-plus. Now, you might think this is a little unfair. However, this ain't no democracy; right now, this restaurant's a dictatorship, and I'm your Joseph Stalin. Do as I say, you will leave this place merely without your wallets. Do as I say not to, you will leave this place without most of your skull intact. And don't worry yourselves about the phones, people. We've cut the line."

The guy in the suit pulled a plastic garbage bag out of one of the pockets in his overcoat.

"My brother here will be collecting your wallets. Do it in a timely and efficient fashion and you may keep all your fingers."

Wesker, Barry and I exchanged glances. Barry stuck out six fingers and mouthed the words, "six shooter." Wesker wrote another note:

"_I'm unarmed."_

The only weapon we had was Barry's six-shooter. It was something, but it didn't have the rate of fire or weapon capacity we'd need to match the bearded guy's MAC-10.

The man in the overcoat went to a table with a young Japanese couple first.

"Wallets in the bag you chink fucks!" he yelled.

The couple clearly couldn't understand a word of English.

"Are you deaf, or just stupid?" the overcoat guy said.

The couple continued to stare, eyes like those of a deer in headlights.

"You think I won't, huh? Testing me? Think I ain't got the balls?" he was screaming now.

"Geoffey! Cool it. Just take their damn wallets."

The couple kept their hands up, almost like they thought their palms would be able to deflect bullets. As it turned out, they couldn't. The guy in the overcoat fired at the woman's hand, blowing most of her fingers off. She half-shrieked and sobbed in pain and horror as streams of blood shot from her horrific wounds.

"Geoffey! What the _fuck_ was that?" the bearded guy said.

"Dumb bitch," the guy in the trench coat said, seizing her by the hair and jerking her head back. "I told you to hand over your cash. See what happens when you don't listen?"

He pointed his sawed-off at the husband. "Get both yours and her wallets out. Now!"

The man was stuttering. I couldn't see him from where I was sitting, but it sounded like he was sobbing.

"I…no…don't…I do not…"

The bearded man stomped over to the guy in the overcoat, grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him away from the terrified couple. He lowered his voice, but I was close enough to hear him.

"That is _not_ how we handle things, _Geoffrey_. They clearly don't speak shit's worth of English. You flash in the red again, I'll make it so's you and that girl there are even-steven in terms of fingers."

He released the man in the overcoat.

"Sorry you had to see that, folks," he said. "But if nothing else, I hope that little fuck-up by my dear, sweet brother here shows you we ain't foolin' around. Now we're gonna try this again."

He shoved the bag into his brother's chest.

"Get their wallets. Do it quick."

He took a white linen cloth and a small bottle out of his pocket. He poured some of the liquid from the bottle onto the cloth and wiped down the woman's wound.

I glanced over my shoulder. The bearded guy was whispering to the Japanese woman and wrapping her wound, while the guy in the overcoat was working his way around the booths. In a few seconds we'd have the bar between us and him. I motioned to Wesker for the notepad.

"_Idea. Stay low. Behind bar. Then Barry takes beardo."_

Wesker looked at Barry, then at the bearded man, then the man in the overcoat, then at me. He nodded. I glanced back at the robber with the overcoat. The bar was obstructing his view of our table. I looked at Wesker and pointed to a spot behind the bar.

Without a sound, Wesker and I got out of our booth and crouched. We went for the bar.

The bearded robber saw us out of the corner of his eye. A shot whizzed past the back of my neck.

"God dammit…Geoffey!"

I heard footsteps coming from both sides of the bar. Then I heard Barry.

"Ho…holy shit!"

"Lay your shit down! DO IT!"

I heard the bearded guy drop his guns.

"Drop it, asshole!"

"Geoffey, it's okay. It's okay. Just chill."

"Put the gun down you fat fuck!"

"This is a Colt Python, buddy. If I want, I can put a hole the size of my dick in your forehead. Or your brother's."

Two steps of footsteps to my right were moving away. One set, to my left, was moving closer.

"You let him go, and I'll let you go."

"Buddy, I don't know who the hell taught you to bargain, but I'm the one's got all the chips."

The guy in the overcoat started laughing. It was kind of creepy.

"Do you know who I am? I'm Geoffrey Edward goddamn Halbritch!"

"Geoffey, you stupid son of a bitch! Don't tell him your name!"

Wesker had stuck his sunglasses around the corner of the bar, and was watching the guy in the overcoat's reflection. He held up his hand and motioned for me to follow him. The guy in the overcoat had moved to the other side of the bar.

"You think you're on top of the world right now? Huh? Think you're the one pullin' all the strings?" the guy in the overcoat was moving towards Barry.

Wesker stuck his sunglasses around the corner of the bar again. A shot rang out, and one of the lenses shattered. The guy in the overcoat started running in our direction. We ran, crouched, behind the other side of the bar. Barry's Colt roared, and a bullet punched through some bottles and an oak shelf in the bar before embedding itself in the far wall. Then we heard Barry grunt, and a dull, heavy thud.

"Guess the joke's on you now, pilgrim," the bearded man said, laughing. "You can move your hand off that gun, if you don't mind."

Something heavy and metallic dropped.

"Now then," the bearded guy said, walking in our direction.

I knew he'd be on us in seconds. I crouched by the corner of the bar nearest to the bearded guy, hoping he'd be close to the bar when he came in view. If I was off by even a second, he'd put rounds in me and that would be it; game over.

When he came into view, he was so close he nearly bumped into me. I sprung into his abdomen before he had a chance to react. On impact, he jerked the trigger of the 9mm and shot out a light. I pinned him to the ground, holding his hands so that he couldn't raise either of his weapons.

"Barry! Disarm!"

Barry pulled himself to his feet and yanked both weapons from the bearded guy's hands. Just as he did so, the bearded guy managed to break out of my hold and flip himself over. He curled into a ball, causing me to lose my balance and fall backward. As I was falling, I saw him give Barry a whack in the balls. Hard.

A shotgun went off behind me. Wesker was wrestling the weapon away from the guy in the overcoat. He twisted it one hundred and eighty degrees, jabbed the guy in the face with the broad side of the weapon, then spun around and slammed the guy into the side of the bar. He dropped to the floor without his shotgun, which Wesker had trained on him.

The bearded guy floored Barry with an uppercut to the jaw. I pulled myself up, but he kicked me in the stomach. I grabbed his leg and pulled, and he collapsed. Barry fought through the pain long enough to pick up a wooden bar stool, raise it over the bearded guy's head…

"Aw, hell…"

…and bring it down. It shattered over his back.

"Ughh," he groaned. "You fuckin' dick-lickin' sons of…"

Behind me, the guy in the over coat kicked the barrel of the shotgun up. Wesker fired. The guy in the overcoat screamed.

"Son…of…a…BITCH!"

He jumped up on his good leg and swung at Wesker with a right hook. He blocked it, twisted his arm around the guys', and then jerked his arm down. I heard a snapping sound, and the guy in the overcoat screamed. I glanced over. Blood was pouring out of one of his Italian leather shoes. Probably a toe.

In that less-than-a-second window, the bearded guy took a piece of broken stool and cracked it on my head. He jabbed Barry in the knee, then stood up and brushed himself off before kicking me in the ribs.

Two shots rang out, but not from the restaurant. It came from the kitchen area. Less than a second later, a fat guy rolled out of the kitchen, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and nothing else. Two guys followed him out of the double doors: the first guy carried about as much weight as the guy who'd just gutterball'd out of the kitchen, but his gullet was smeared with a bloody handprint, like someone had been drowning in a sea of blood and reached out for his gut to keep himself safely afloat. The second guy had mutton chops and beady eyes, or rather, eye; a Native American from the look of him. He had a linen bandage around his right eye, with a bloody spot where that eye should have been. Also his nose was bleeding. However, the most striking thing I found about the two guys was something they had in common with the fat guy who'd just rolled out of the kitchen. Rather, it was something they shared that they didn't have: clothing. Even more peculiar than that, only one of them was holding a pistol, and that was the guy who'd come out of the kitchen first. The other two, the ones who were now standing, were holding giant, pink rubber sex toys of the phallic persuasion. The fat guy on the floor was unconscious now, and his two fellow freeballers were left to gawk at the room full of broken furniture, cops, robbers, and thoroughly confused and frightened restaurant customers.

For a second, Barry, the bearded guy, myself, Wesker, and the guy in the overcoat, along with the rest of the restaurant could only stare, stare while our brains tried, collectively, to piece together what it was we were seeing. To this day, I still can't even begin to take the roughest kind of stab at it.

Wesker spoke first.

"Sorry, not interrupting anything, are we?"

Then the guy in the overcoat spoke.

"You mother _fuckers_!"

He got up to chase them. Wesker caught him and put him in an arm lock.

"Cecil! That's the guys! That's the fucking guys, Cecil!"

The bearded guy turned to Barry just in time to see him stick a big, silver gun in his face.

"I don't think you're gonna be giving us any more trouble. Am I wrong?"

The two naked guys jumped- no, literally, jumped- through the doors and took off running.

Hours later we found out that the guys we'd busted were professional robbers who'd been running amok in Illinois for about two and a half months. The bearded guy was Cecil "The Saint" Halbritch, a man who'd been in and out of prison his entire life; an authentic, twenty-four carat thief by trade. The other was his brother, an ex-investment banker named Geoffrey Halbritch. He'd been a part of a financial institution called "Robinson & Rutherford", which had run itself into the ground about a year prior. Down on his luck, Geoffrey "Geoffey" Halbritch decided to join his brother in his line of work. They'd done pretty well for themselves up until then. According to Geoffrey, "Rommel's" was the last place they'd planned to hit for at least a few years. They'd raised over two million dollars between the two of them. They'd hit restaurants, liquor stores, even a couple small banks throughout the tri-state area over half a year. That still didn't, however, answer the question of the inexplicable presence of the three nude men with guns and sex toys. Before the arresting officer ducked his head into the back of the squad car, I asked "The Saint" what he knew about them. He just rolled his eyes and said-

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

His brother had been an amateur- a mentally unstable amateur. The Japanese woman went into shock when the shooting started, but apparently, when she woke up to her husband's face hovering over her sterile hospital bed, she forgot why she was even in the hospital in the first place. But only for a second.

Wesker had a plane to catch, so he had to leave as soon as we'd cleared things up with the cops. The last time I saw him before I left Chicago for Raccoon City was a couple hours after the fight, when he walked up to me, shook my hand, and told me this with a wry grin:

"Remind me never to get on your bad side."


End file.
